


Fresh Served

by CodeGreen



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reality Show, Competition, Cooking, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Porn With Plot, Reality TV, Top Chef
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2018-11-06 05:52:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 65,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11029986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CodeGreen/pseuds/CodeGreen
Summary: Andy Murray joins the newest season of Top Chef. He's joined by an old rival who's kind of a dick, a flirtatious newcomer who's maybe duplicitous, and a producer who definitely hates him.





	1. Pilot - Part 1

Andy swatted at a boom mic that'd dipped low enough for him to touch. The producer put on her headset and a stage hand rotated a glaring spotlight onto Andy's face. Stage hand? Gaffer? Andy wasn't sure how to refer to everyone on set yet. Cooking, cooking he knows. He'd learned, studied, logged the 10,000 hours to become an expert, mastered deboning white fish and how to perfectly quarter pig's butt. Once, during a particularly brutal winter in Scotland, he'd spent weeks learning exactly how to prep blowfish after a Simpsons episode told him it could be poisonous if not prepared properly. He'd either nailed it on his first attempt, slicing and plating the perfect piece of sashimi, or his brother was indestructible. Either way, Jamie Murray never died from iffy blowfish served by his teenage brother. Now, with a fuzz covered mic dangling over his head like an executioners axe, he suddenly wondered how his mother had even gotten ahold of blowfish that winter. The cut had appeared, packed in a cooler packed in hoarfrost. It had just made sense to him. The way cooking had always made sense.

"No," the producer sighed at him as she pushed him back onto a stool. She was beautiful, disingenuous, and not at all amused with him. "No, you're not. Now - without any swear words - tell me what's going through your head right now. Pretend the camera isn't here. Pretend Juan and his mic aren't here. It's just you and me in this confessional booth."

"It's not a booth, it's just some tarps." Andy was never much for playing pretend. "It's more like a... confessional tent. But with no ceiling. A shanty, maybe."

Maria let the smile melt off her face, her hands moved to her hips in irritation. The pose fit so perfectly that Andy considered it to be her natural disposition.

"Confessional tarp room, then. Tarp torture chamber. The important part is that you get out of your head and just tell me what's going on."

Andy folded his hands in his lap, rattling thermometers and pencils tucked inside his apron pockets, lifted his chin, and spoke as clearly as possible. He'd never been much for appropriate chatter, always finding the right thing to say to horrify an acquaintance or offend an aunt. He'd either verbally step in dog shit every time he met someone's ugly baby or listen in horror as silences dragged on, usually when he'd run into someone cute and his words abandoned him with his wit. But he'd prepared his speech on his short walk, and no icy blonde was about to disarm him. 

"I quit."

If Maria had a second set of arms they would've doubled over the first, her agitation settling itself on her hips. A Vishnu of indignance. 

"You can't quit, it's the first episode. You're just home sick."

"Believe me, I'm not. This just isn't for me." Andy and Maria both waited for him to say something more, but the words slid away. Andy offered a confused shrug to make up the debt.

"Ok," Maria paced in a circle, her many arms lifting towards the hole where the ceiling should have been. "So - tell me why. Actually. Let's start at the beginning. What happened to change your mind so fast?"

-

Reality television is, in fact, nothing like reality. Andy knew that going into the show, but the reality of reality TV was more unreal than he'd anticipated. He'd barely stepped foot off the plane before he was mobbed by a producer and cameraman, pulling him into a van where a tiny explosive wearing a woman's skin was waiting for him.

"I'm Dominika!" she offered her hand. Andy eyed her, wary a vigorous shake was all she needed to explode. He offered his own, squeezed as gently as possible, and immediately busied himself putting on his seat belt as the van rolled out of arrivals deck.

"Andy," he remembered to say a few moments later.

"Short for Andrew, yeah? I'm Dominika but you can call me Domi. Short girl, short name. Just Domi!" Her eyes sparkled and her fingers danced across her knees in excitement. 

Andy said nothing, stared forward. Domi drummed on her legs anxiously. In the 20 minute ride from the airport she'd revealed she was originally from Bratislava, wore her hair in a ponytail at all times for good luck in the kitchen, had recently relocated to Colorado, and had immediately been lauded for originating a buzzy, Slovak inspired, pork dumpling soup in one of Denver's up and coming restaurants. Andy had managed to utter the banal phrase "I like pork" and stare out the window until the van mercifully came to a stop in front of a large industrial building. 

Domi would've climbed over Andy if he'd gotten out of the van any slower, stepping onto the gravel as if his foot didn't trust it. Andy didn't trust much anything, but the murderer's row of camera men and women leading them to the entry of the undistinguished industrial building made him particularly mistrustful. It occurred to him they'd been recorded on the ride over, hidden cameras likely capturing his stilted small talk and his fascination with the smudges on the inside of the window suggesting they weren't the first pair to be plucked from their airplanes and herded into the van. They were cattle to be fed to the cameras. 

Andy's paranoid mad-cow mind threatened to collapse in on itself before his hooves had even hit solid ground.

"Let's go!" Domi said, pushing him out of the van and tumbling out behind him. She picked herself up with a laugh, brushed gravel dust off her clothes and grabbed Andy's hand.

"You ready?" She looked up to him, ponytail wagging behind her and a large grin leading the way. She phrased it like a question, but squeezed his hand and pulled him forward, gravel crunching under their feet and cameras following their every step, knowing that ready or not, here they come.

-

"Hi, I'm Domi."

"Aga, pleasure to meet you."

"Domi. From Colorado. Hi!"

"Hallo. Stan. From Chicago. Kind of."

"Angelique. It's a pleasure."

"Domi."

"Novak. It's so nice to meet you."

Domi moved down the line, greeting fellow contestants with manic efficiency. Each was dressed in identical white chef's coats. Yellow light illuminated a row of dingy fold out chairs, abandoned as each guest rose to meet her with staccato voices and crisp handshakes. Whatever glamour the show may portray to audiences, the contestant's holding pen felt intentionally blank, devoid of defining traits. A canvas for the colorful cast to fill. Domi could fill half the room if she wanted, but immediately turned and pointed the five other contestants towards Andy. He looked up at the sound of his name, listing on his right foot at the end of the row of chairs.

"This is Andy!" she said, now that they'd become best friends for 20 minutes.

"Hi," Andy waved at no one in particular.

"He's a better cook than he is a public speaker." The crowd laughed. Andy accepted the fact that Domi was his now, ready or not. He nodded towards the other chefs still in a neat line beside their chairs. Aga, Stan, Angelique, Novak, and? He hadn't caught his name, but Andy couldn't help but catch his gaze while lingering over the young man's dark features. His hair was cropped studiously short, his eyes slit as he studied Andy. His lips struggled to keep from smiling, threatening to curl upwards in the corners like ribbons.

"Let's hope so," the nameless man said. "Otherwise this might be too easy."

Tall, dark, handsome, and kind of a dick. Andy's hopes were dashed before he'd let them take off too high.

"Grigor." He offered a hand to Domi, who shook it hard enough to let him know she wasn't impressed. "And Andy, was it?"

"It still is," Andy said, shaking his hand and willing himself to be disinterested in his soft skin and firm grip, his self satisfied grin and his lithe build. It suddenly occurred to Andy how long it'd been since he'd gone on a date. Held a hand, kissed a man, or... He'd been so distracted with his restaurant the last few months, all the early mornings in the kitchen and late nights balancing books, he hadn't realized all the other parts of life he'd been neglecting. Hadn't realized he'd been starving himself of real contact. Hadn't realized he was still awkwardly shaking Grigor's hand.

"Has the competition started?" Grigor grinned, kept pumping Andy's hand. "We can just keep going, man."

Andy pulled his hand free. Jammed it into the oversized pocket of his chef's coat. "Well... That was sufficiently awkward. Anyone else like to grip me awkwardly? Stan, you could probably just pull this arm clean off."

"You haven't changed at all, Andy. It's nice to see you again," Stan said, wiping sweat from his forehead with the crux of his elbow.

Aga raised an eyebrow. "You're previously acquainted?" 

Andy and Stan had known each other for nearly a decade, shoulders and lives brushing against each other every few years in unexpected rooms in unexpected cities. They'd often competed for the same jobs, a slow-burning cooking competition that had prepared them for this show better than they could have hoped. Andy had last seen Stan at a brunch on the Lower East Side, years ago. He was nursing a mean hangover and a bruised ego after another break up with his longtime boyfriend, Roger. Last he'd heard, that brunch had been the end of them. 

Andy didn't bother keeping tabs. He could tolerate Stan well enough. Both had foul mouthes and moody dispositions to bond them, but spending more than a few minutes in the same room as Roger made Andy want to swallow glass. Roger with his growing empire of trendy restaurants, his glad handing, his toothy grin and awe shucks attitude that was so obscenely calculated. He was a head of good hair on top of six feet of corporeal ego. He'd be intolerably bland if it weren't for the runaway success of his first restaurant, Lawn Club. A menu of all grass fed beef provided the mediocre inspiration. It had led to downtown sister restaurants, and quick service burger stands near the park, and a West Coast satellite. Roger was rich. Roger was famous, in certain circles. He was successful. He was dull, inoffensive, brand savvy. Roger was all the things Andy wasn't. Roger was walking through the double doors of their empty warehouse holding pen. Dammit.

A wave of chefs flooded into the room, Roger leading the way as five others followed in his self satisfied wake. Andy and the waiting chefs turned to watch as they strutted in, a parade of white aprons and uneasy smiles. Something shifted in Roger's stride as they approached, his face clouding over. Stan looked visibly shaken, his unshaven adam's apple bouncing up and then down as he took a hard gulp of air. The others glanced between the two, unsure what to do, not knowing about this unexpected reunion.

"So," Angelique sat down with a heavy sigh, "does everyone already know each other?"

Roger snapped back to reality, shaking his head and picking up a media trained smile. "A few of us are already acquainted. This is Vika, Nick, Caroline, and Genie. I'm Roger F-"

"They know who you are."

Roger looked to where the voice had come from, a small laugh escaping him. "Hiya, Andy. Who're your friends?"

Andy scanned the faces beside him, realized he'd forgotten everyone's names already. "This here is Domi. That guy is Hand Shakey McGee. That angry frauline is Baroness Von Chair Sitter. And those last two don't talk so I assume they're the smartest people in the room." Novak brushed the comment aside and nodded politely. Aga shrugged a single shoulder with great effort.

The uncomfortable silence threatened to implode the entire building when they were startled by a loud rumbling, the wall behind their chairs slowly raising like a garage door to reveal a resplendent sound set. A dozen metal tables, stocked with produce and knife blocks, made a semi circle around one long table. The table was draped in blue cloth and low leaning boom mics, klieg lights creating the illusion of depth and space between the cramped work tables. Perched behind the large blue clothed table, a quartet of culinary legends and well known judges sat with stone faces; Eva Asderaki, Rafael Nadal, Tom Colicchio, and magnanimous show host Venus Williams.

The 12 assembled chefs began clapping. A smattering of sounds quickly become a full applause as they stared at their gathered judges, oblivious to the steady stream of producers and videographers flowing in through the double door entrance behind them to capture their stunned expressions.

Venus beamed, a broad smile made transcendent by the lighting around her. "Chefs. Welcome to a brand new season of Top Chef. Congratulations to each of you for making it this far. And a special welcome back to you, Vika, after your premature departure last season. For those of you who don't know, Vika was part of our previous season but left to deliver her first child. We're glad to have you back."

"Thank you, everyone. I'm excited to be back, though I miss eating for two."

"Well now you'll be cooking for yourself - and for your heritage," Venus shifted from smile to megawatt grin, "as each of you represent not just yourselves, but your home countries in this very special all immigrant season of Top Chef."

The chefs looked amongst each other, scanning faces for some hint of where each had been born. They'd foolishly squandered their first impressions on small talk and bad handshakes. Venus welcomed the chefs again, and quickly launched into a description of their first challenge. The Quick Fire Challenge gave them mere minutes to concoct single serving dishes. The challenged posed to them - provide Venus with one fork full of their favorite childhood dish - updated for Top Chef standards. In 15 minutes or less. Starting now.

The chaos that erupted was nothing new to Andy, or anyone who'd spent hours working the back of house in a restaurant. Pans clattered and knives glistened, rolled sleeves revealed steam burned forearms as the 12 chefs began furious attempts to turn their childhood comfort foods into fine dining. Andy couldn't think of his favorite food as a kid, but fortunately their time limit didn't allow him time to think. He had to whip up something fast, that could fit all it's flavors into a single forkful. He began boiling water and dumping in his ingredients, keeping one eye on the competition around him.

Novak, who had been quiet earlier in the day, laughed and yelled as he prepped what appeared to be an updated goulash dish. Nick appeared to be spooning out huge helpings of yeast onto a plate, Andy assumed for some sort of Michelin starred version of vegemite judging from the bright green and yellow t-shirt poking out from his half unbuttoned chef's coat. Angelique was chopping with speed and precision Andy had never seen, cleaving potatoes at sharp angles with a quiet dedication. He suddenly realized Baroness Von Chair Sitting may be his biggest competition in this group. Vika's hands were stained beet red. Roger and Stan were each battling with pressure cookers, asiduously avoiding one another.

Andy busied himself with his ingredients, forcing himself to test small samples straight out of the boiling water to check firmness, wanting to avoid creating an entire mush. He moved quickly, assuredly, on a dish he had literally made in his sleep previously. He just didn't have a dozen cameras in his face and a production crew counting down while he made it, usually. He grabbed a basket of strawberries when he heard it. The quick schink sound of the blade had been too short, too quiet, compared to the loud steady chops before it. It was immediately followed by a high pitched squeal, clipped, ending nearly as soon as it started.

He whirled around, along with 10 other chefs, to see Angelique tightly gripping her index finger. Her purple and white potatoes now drizzled in red, her knife flat on the cutting board.

The lead producer, tall, blonde, irritated, pushed through the room. "Let me see it!" She held Angelique's finger up towards a light, closed one eye as if looking down the barrel of a gun. She waved to a lanky cameraman, who instinctively moved his camera closer to capture the droplets of blood hanging off Angie's fist, the finger prints she'd smeared against her apron. She muttered in German, her eyes pleading with the producer.

"Absolutely not," the tall women said, speaking louder than necessary as a show of authority to the room. She pressed a button on her head set and began speaking rapidly, leading Angelique back to the empty staging area that now had a small section of draped tarps to provide makeshift privacy.

Andy heard a voice beside him, his concentration entirely on Angelique as she disappeared behind the black tarps.

"Hey!" The voice finally broke through to Andy. He turned to see Novak, madly mixing his dish in a deep pot. "Andy, hey! You're going to boil over."

He yanked his pot off the burner and continued his dish, turning to mouth a quiet 'thank you' to the man who had unnecessarily saved him after his lapse in concentration. Time quickly wound down. Andy scrambled to plate his dish in a shallow bowl, resting strawberries on the top just so as Venus began making her rounds.

She did her best to maintain a neutral facade, but her eyes lit up as she tasted dishes that spoke to her. Her lips turned down slightly as she swallowed entire bites of meals too salty or undercooked. Held breathes and culinary dreams fell victim to her micro-reactions, inscrutable sounds, and gentle compliments. They'd all die of heart attacks from her poker face by the end of this season, Andy was sure of it.

"This," Andy said, as Venus approached his table "is a lavender oat porridge, with brown sugar glazed strawberries." 

She inspected her spoon dutifully. "I thought I said one forkful, not a spoonful."

Andy smiled, genuinely, naturally, the small rain cloud over his head disappearing for just a moment. "Trust me, it's thick enough to eat with a fork if you like."

She accepted his challenge, swapping her spoon for a fork and quickly taking a heaping bite of porridge, one lone strawberry precariously balanced on top. Andy stared intently, looking for a tell, a sign of her thoughts. She put her fork down on the table, pleased with her own discretion in the face of an onslaught of flavor, and walked to the next contestants table.

She made her rounds slowly before joining the judges at their long table. She chatted idly with Tom as Ava and Rafa joked about something innocuous. The contestants simply stood by their food and waited. And waited. And waited. After a rush to make their food, they were now apparently supposed to hurry up and wait. The lanky cameraman returned, tapping Andy on the shoulder and motioning him to follow him back to the tarps. The blonde producer was waiting inside.

"Hi, Andrew. Have a seat. Go ahead and look right into Juan's camera here, not at me. Now, tell me. What're you thinking right now?"

"What?!" Andy had no idea what to say. "I'm not thinking anything. So far today I've made some porridge and sat around with my dick in my hand waiting for someone to be sent home."

The blonde frowned, Andy guessed from the slight shaking of the camera that Juan was stifling a laugh. "First - don't say dick. We're on cable but we still have to be TV-G. Second - what was that handshake with Grigor about?"

Andy shrugged. "I dunno. He's a dick."

"What. Did. I. Just. Say, Andy?"

"Right, no dick. Sorry."

"Alright, so third," she gently tapped her hand on her thigh, calming herself and thinking of questions for Andy, "third. Third... Are you intimidated by Roger's presence?"

Andy's back stiffened, his pupils dilated. "No."

"No, what?"

"No. I'm not intimated by Roger. He's a Nasgul with an elf's skin stretched over his body. His greatest skill is appearing skillful, and these challenges will expose that."

"Brilliant!" She said it to Juan, not bothering to engage Andy further. "That's our sound bite. Get this to the story editors ASAP. Ok. Andy, you can go."

Andy sat on the stool, mouth agape. He was there for a sound bite. Judges weren't freezing out contestants, producers were. They'd stopped the competition to get revealing sound bites from everyone while their nerves were high and there's lips were loose.

"Andy, you can go." She repeated, distracted by someone speaking in her headset. "Hey, grab Caroline on your way out."

Andy stood slowly, dumbfounded, rigid steps leading him past the tarps until he wandered back to his work station. Novak waved at him again.

"Hey. How was Maria? The producer? How was the confession booth? Andy. Hey! Are you ok?"

"Oh my God," Andy spoke in a slow deadpan. "I'm on a reality tv show."

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. His brother Jamie, his business partner, convinced him to apply. Why not? It'd be hilarious, and if he got on it would only be great visibility for their restaurant, Hey Judy. He never assumed he'd actually be chosen for the show, thousands of applicants send in videos of themselves telling their inspirational stories or chopping vegetables at lighting speed. Jamie had just sent in a candid video of Andy lecturing him about the perfect breadcrumbs, a subject Andy felt freakishly passionate about. In the first episode of the season to air on TV, the producers will include an introductory clip from the video that just features Andy, his hair then longer and curlier, yelling to his brother "There are croutons out there that will change your life!"

But the trail of breadcrumbs had led him here, where a producer with a lethal gaze grilled him on topics until he'd accidentally coughed up a sound bite. A skill Andy possessed without professional prompting. 

He staggered back to the makeshift work room, the other chefs wandering around their tables and sampling each others' childhood dishes, chatting idly as they were called back one by one to have juicy dialogue pulled out of their mouthes. Or worse, entirely fed to them. Most of the chefs seemed unphased, maybe they'd expected this to be part of the job in a way Andy had been too naive to consider. Maybe they weren't as prone to jamming both their feet into their mouth like the Scot. Whatever the case, the sense of dread growing in his stomach seemed to belong to Andy alone, filling him up faster than Novak's goulash or Genie's immaculately plated walleye. 

The morning had become afternoon before producers rounded them up at their tables. Make up artists descended on the judges, cameramen preparing tight close ups on the contestants' faces. The calm had ended, the first storm had arrived.

"Chefs, this was a marvelous first challenge," Venus said. "You managed to show a glimpse of who you were as a child and who you are as a chef with these dishes. But some of you did better than others. And unfortunately, this Quick Fire is also an elimination challenge. Which means one of you - will be going home.

The reveal was a loud clap of thunder to the contestants. After all the time to get onto the show, they'd really only made it to the last stage of the qualification rounds. Before their first major challenge, they could still be bounced. Andy fought the dread in his stomach. Could he take 12 rounds of this?

"Andy!" Venus pointed at him with both hands, a smile spreading across her face. The tendrils of dread within him untangled. "Your porridge was such a surprise. It was hardy and the texture was perfect. It felt like such a loving memory."

What had unknotted in his stomach suddenly turned to a tingling sensation in his head, he could feel his face slowly redden as he looked down at his Under Armor shoes. Andy wasn't used to being flattered. He stared down at his laces and muttered "Mmthanks."

"And Roger. I can't imagine how you made beef medallions that tender, but they paired with your raclette so perfectly... it was art. Thank you for sharing it."

Roger smiled. Genuine, but not too big. "Thank you. It was my pleasure."

Venus nodded. "But, only one of you can win this challenge. And the winner of this challenge wins - ten thousand dollars, courtesy of Laver Steaks." Andy felt his knees nearly buckle as she spoke. Ten thousand dollars, for some porridge or some melted cheese? Twelve rounds of this suddenly sounded like an unearned shopping spree.

Venus looked between them dramatically. Without the sound that would be added in post-production she would've looked ridiculous, but her commitment to hitting her marks, understanding how to play to the cameras trained on all of them, kept all of the chefs on edge.

"Roger, you're today's Quick Fire winner. Congratulations. And Andy - well done."

Andy nodded with a stone face, the light of Roger's radiant smile causing a glare in his eyes. Figures.

"But unfortunately, that means someone must go home. Caroline, your herring was great in theory, but you bit off more than you could chew in a Quick Fire. And Nick, your vegemite was fine, but too loyal to the source. You didn't show us anything new. So who goes home?"

Caroline stood rigid, eyes red. She'd simply run out of time and accepted the fate of her half cooked herring. Nick lacked imagination, she lacked time. Nick shifted his weight from foot to foot, irritation evident on his face.

"Caroline," Venus looked at her with sympathetic eyes. "You still have a chance to keep your eye on the clock. Angelique has been forced to retire from the competition. But remember, you're living on borrowed time."

Caroline bobbled her head in agreement and gratitude, understanding an unfortunate slice was her lucky break. Nick looked incredulous. "Why not send them both home?"

The relief that had washed over the room instantly vanished with Nick's comment. "What is wrong with you?" Domi had been unnaturally silent for minutes, coiled, and was now ready to spring. "Seriously. Why would you say that. Is one person shaving off their pointer finger not enough of drama for you? Do you have to manufacture more with your mouth?"

Novak melodramatically clanged a spoon against an empty pot, a bell starting a prize fight. The silliness of the act seemed to reset the room, chefs allowing small titters of laughter out to ease the tension. They'd survived their trial by Quick Fire. And Roger left it $10,000 richer.


	2. Pilot - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chefs take on their first main challenge. Roger is apparently an expert in television editing, too.

It was obvious all the chefs had one thing in mind when they decided to leave one room entirely unoccupied. They'd emptied out of the vans and spilled into the brightly lit penthouse that would be their fishbowl home for the coming weeks. Domi was quick to grab Andy by the wrist and pull him into the first room they passed, each claiming a bunk by tossing their luggage on top of it. Caroline followed them in, throwing her bag on a bunk and nodding at them in approval. Nick approached the room, bristle haired head poking through the doorframe.

"NOOOOPE." Caroline hadn't finished saying it before he'd already walked down the hall, dragging out her ohs dramatically. She shrugged towards Domi, neither proud of her outburst nor apologetic. A corner of Andy's mouth hitched upward in approval.

Eventually a large brown rucksack belonging to Novak claimed the last bunk in the room. He tiptoed into the room like a cartoon villain before claiming the bunk with his luggage. Roger, Nick, and Grigor quickly laid claim to another room, with Stan being granted reluctant acceptance only after the third room had been claimed exclusively by women with Vika, Aga, and Genie hanging up coats and plugging in hair irons instantly. He wandered into the de facto men's room with his breath held tight in his chest, silently scanning Nick and Grigor's faces for approval first. Grigor threw him a half wave as a greeting, not picking up on the chill in the room. 

Nick looked between Roger and Stan, head swiveling between the two as he sucked his teeth. "Can you two be in the same room? Cuz I don't want to deal with hair pulling."

Roger ran a hand through his thick brown hair, gaining an unreal amount of composure. "Absolutely. Right? Stan?"

Stan nodded. "Yeah. Why wouldn't we?"

"Ooooh," Grigor suddenly understood. "You used to be a thing. I get it. Wow, yeah, this could be awkward." 

"It's fine," Stan said, words terse enough to reveal exactly how not fine it was. His gaze darted around room. "Look, there's a fourth room, I can just-"

"No you can't!" Genie's voice came through the thin walls from the other room. Soon she was pushing into the boy's room with Aga and Vika piling in behind her. "No, you can't, because clearly we leave the fourth room open."

Nick rolled his eyes at the confusion etched across Grigor's face. "To fuck, man. Jesus."

"Ooooh. I get it." Grigor was at risk of developing his own catch phrase.

"You won't need to worry about that," Domi bounded into the room, shooting a zinger at no one in particular, both Grigor and Nick frowning in response. "But, yeah, we should totally leave one room open. There are enough bunks in these three rooms."

Aga inspected the cameras mounted to the walls, the track lighting set up to ensure camera shots looked crisp even in the evening. "Do you think the extra beds are because they're adding secret cast members?"

"That's a good point, like a big reveal or something. Them adding more contestants," Vika said.

"No," Novak flanked the doorway with Andy. "They've only got eight episodes in a season and we already started with 12 contestants."

"Which means there will be double eliminations, not more contestants," Aga quickly agreed.

"Sooo," Genie grinned "there's a spare room. For whatever it is spare rooms are for."

Andy nodded. "We've got a rumpus room."

"Champagne room," Vika corrected.

Andy shook his head. "Not the way I use it."

"Which means," Nick looked between Roger and Stan again, making his meaning obvious to everyone in the room "no hair pulling."

Roger subconsciously fidgeted with a gold crest ring. Stan nodded, neck stiff.

Genie's grin widened somehow. "So Roger. Which bunk are you, top or bottom?" She repressed a laugh. The others looked at him, giddy and full of morbid curiosity

"I'm not even responding to that."

"Right right," Novak said. "Don't tell us yet. It's too soon to know who'll be Top Chef."

The collective groan only made Novak laugh harder at his own joke.

-

It had never been intentional, he really had just planned to stay out of the way as much as possible. After the whirlwind of meeting all of his fellow contestants, a furious Quick Fire challenge, and the unexpected elimination of an early front runner, Andy just needed a quiet night. Unsurprisingly, everyone in the penthouse relaxed the same way - cooking. And booze. They decided on grilled cheese and a vegetable stew after learning that Novak's gluten intolerance limited their menu severely. Andy found himself in a corner, contently chopping piles of onions and carrots, celery and potatoes, anything he could find to keep himself occupied. The swirl of drama had just begun, and the tornado was inevitable with the high pressure system of eleven egos trapped inside one house. Nick and Genie declared themselves bartenders for the evening, mixing and tasting and tasting again a series of over-complicated cocktails. 

It was a cocktail from batch number 6, limoncello mixed with soda water and melted lime sorbet, that Grigor plunked down on the counter next to Andy. He was taller than Andy had thought, and smelled lightly of a spice Andy couldn't quite pick out. Cloves, maybe. 

He stared expectantly, sliding the drink down the counter until it clanked against Andy's cutting board. "All chopping and no sipping makes Andy a dull boy."

"Eh, I'm pretty dull when I'm drinking, too." Andy considered the glass, green and terrifyingly bright, a highball promising a sugar hangover. Grigor did have a point, though. Their first night on the show and everyone had found a comfortable place in the penthouse, the automatic cameras replacing the cameramen and producers that had made everyone feel so out of place and micromanaged earlier. If he had any hope of surviving the entire season, relaxing with a drink or six had to be part of the equation.

He looked around for a towel, holding his hands up with a befuddled smile as he scanned the room. Grigor scanned the kitchen. Finding nothing for Andy's hands, he grabbed the glass and held it to the other man's lips. Andy leaned forward and took a deep pull of the drink, alarmed that it was actually refreshing. Water and vegetable stock dripped from his hands and down his forearms.

"See, I like you better already." Grigor sat the glass down on the marble countertop.

"Ahh really? I need about 4 more before I start liking myself." Andy smiled wide so Grigor would know he was joking, his teeth and sandy hair giving him the likeness of a very mild mannered lion. He wiped his forearms against his tight black t-shirt and picked his knife back up.

"I don't see what's not to like." Grigor grabbed two handfuls of chopped vegetables and dumped them into a deep pot. Andy debated his reply, finally shrugging when nothing came to him, his eyes trained on the tomatoes he dissected with ease. Tomatoes had been one the few things he'd been able to grow in a garden as a child, and he'd learned details of their varieties and tastes and textures and colors better than he'd learned his address.

"Wow, so you're really not much of a talker," Grigor darted a hand into the pile of diced produce and pulled away a small handful of yellow tomatoes. He tossed one with an elegant, errant, motion and caught it in his mouth. He finished them in moments, entertaining himself with the handful while Andy chopped.

"Drink, please." Andy nodded to his side. He kept prepping as Grigor lifted the glass to his lips. He took a noisy sip and wiped his chin, successfully smearing tomato along his face. 

"Here," he grabbed a handful of multiple tomatoes, corralling green, yellow and red slices together, "have all three at once." Grigor took the tomatoes, his fingers warm and seemingly lingering on Andy's wet palm for a moment, and threw them into his mouth. "Those three have totally different flavor profiles, but together... That and some Swiss and you've got yourself the perfect sandwich."

Grigor literally chewed on the thought for a moment before taking a sip of Andy's drink. "Speaking of Swiss..." he looked around the penthouse, chefs cooking and chopping and mixing and pouring all around them. Andy hadn't even noticed the absence of two of them until Grigor mentioned it. He nudged Grigor's hand to bring the drink back up to his lips.

Back in the spare room, the two Swiss men had easily found each other's lips. It was never intentional. It was the way Stan had looked at him earlier when picking bunks; not afraid to sleep in the same room, but scared to ask to sleep in the same bed again. His eyes all remorse and longing. Roger never intended to take him back, to do all of this over again. But as he opened his suitcase and unpacked his clothes he realized how many of those gym shorts were probably once Stan's, and realized he'd kept an extra set of ear plugs in his toiletry bag just in case his boyfriend snored on their next vacation. It was never intentional to fall in love, but he couldn't help believing it was never an accident either. 

-

Andy tended to hum when deep in concentration. It was deeply subconscious, a closed mouth reverberation that became his own murmured ohm as his knife slips under fish scales and the entire world becomes one harmonious fillet of snapper. 

"You're doing it again." Grigor didn't bother to look over at Andy. He perched at his work station, head craned awkwardly to take a selfie of his sharp angled face beside a mound of uncooked beef.

"So are you." Andy tilted his head back and forth in mockery. He'd been mildly horrified to find out Grigor was allowed a deactivated cell phone for the entirety of the season. No one was allowed phones during the shooting process, lest they give away plot points or connect with loved ones to escape the tension of the competition. But Grigor had a massive following online, having risen up as a minor social media celebrity thanks to a camera roll of pictures that were simply a shirtless Grigor next to perfectly seared meals. That and an unrivaled lack of shame had propelled him from unknown line cook to Instagram influencer in a few short weeks. Producers of the show had granted him a deactivated phone to allow him to post shots to his accounts when the season finally aired, whenever that may be.

"If you don't start cooking you're going to have to serve them beef tartare."

Grigor reeled off another set of photos and shot Andy a confused look. 

"It's uncooked steak."

Recognition flashed in Grigor's eyes, Andy shook his head in disbelief. If he didn't pull it together, he was going to be the second person sent home this week. But Grigor hadn't gotten onto the show by NOT taking pictures, and Andy wondered if producers would even let their social media darling be kicked off in the first few challenges.

"Come get in one. Real quick. Come on!" Grigor pointed the phone at Andy and tapped the screen rapidly. "See, that one right there is already a winner. Caption it 'surly salmon prep' yeah?"

"It's snapper."

"Ooh, 'dapper with snapper' then!" He waited for a reaction from the Scot, who simply kept his head down and picked up another fish, slicing it open effortlessly to keep himself distracted.

Grigor took a series of photos of the efficient flicks of the wrist, reviewed them for a moment. "Fine. I'll pick the caption. Pretend to ignore me. It's cute."

Andy choked on nothing, the comment more than he could swallow. His mouth hung open momentarily, his brain rolling ideas around. "Ummm," the hum again. "You're joking."

"Most of the captions are a little funny, yeah." Grigor slid the phone into his apron pocket. Andy looked at him blank-faced. He was still frozen in place, leaning over the platter of fish. 

"So you really don't get it, do you Andy? It's not like I've been subtle. Last night at dinner. Nothing? Am I that unappealing to you?"

He opened his mouth to speak but no coherent idea emerged. "How did you- what if I'm not-," he cleared his throat with a grunt. "Don't you have some meal prep to do?"

The smirk spread across his face slowly, starting with his lips and spreading to his eyes, even his shoulders seemed to unfurl and grin. Grigor's teeth and intentions were bared. 

"You want to give me a hand?" He held his pyramid of beef in front of Andy's face. "Knead my meat?"

He pushed the plate away with another annoyed grunt. "I prefer my meat uncut."

Grigor raised his eyebrows. That was distinctly not a "no" from the Scot. This competition was looking up.

-

"FIVE MINUTES!" Domi's voice echoed through the cramped sound stage. 

Andy blinked in disbelief, sweat dripping from his brow as he willed his catch to fry faster in the pan. "Fuck fucking copper pan fuck" streaming out in an incoherent babble.

"Hey!" Maria, the blonde producer, leaned over his shoulder. "We have to do a shit ton of sound editing in post production if you don't stop that."

Andy glared at her from the corner of his eye, ratcheting up the heat on the range and raising his voice to town crier levels. "Fuck fuck fuck."

"Thanks, Andy." 

She whispered something into her headset and turned on her heel, walking towards the next work station where Aga furiously plated a legion of deconstructed shepherd's pies. 

He managed to get everything on a plate, at least there was that. By the time Venus and Tom appeared at his work station he'd abandoned hope for much more. As much as he wanted to blame Grigor, he blamed himself entirely. He'd gotten distracted by a pretty face and hadn't come close to finishing his dish properly. There was a great dish somewhere in there, lost in the banter and flirting and the sublimated but very real desire to turn that teasing smile and snicker into wrecked moans and yielding lips and-

Venus punctured his cloud of angry, aroused, repentant thoughts. She arrived at his station with the venerable Tom Coliccio, both eager to taste what he'd created. He'd watched her eyes as they flashed and dimmed, a forkful of anticipation fizzling out spectacularly by the time it touched her lips. Tom's face remained inscrutable, but Andy knew he'd just invented the exact taste of disappointment.

By the time the eleven remaining chefs gathered in front of the Judge's Table, Andy's self loathing was boiling over. Still, he had a chance. It was underwhelming, it wasn't a disaster. Or is an ambitious disaster better than an underwhelming punt of a dish?

"Chefs," Tom began, cameras trained on him and make up artists ducking out of their path. "This first challenge is always a learning experience. For you, adjusting to this show. And for us, learning a bit more about each of you. Roger - after years in this industry - I thought I knew everything there was to you. I'm really pleasantly surprised that you proved me wrong today. To take something so simple as shrimp and grits, and elevate it to this whole other plane. Unreal. Well done."

"Thank you, Chef." Roger beamed, but said little more. His dish had clearly done the talking for him. Genie and Novak each did the same, accepting the judges' praise for the top dishes with little more than grateful smiles and deep sighs.

Venus turned to Tom quizzically, the other judges mirroring her movements. "Tom, what were your least favorite dishes of the day?"

Tom stared at his hands for a moment. "Caroline. I think you just had too many ideas on one plate. I liked what you were trying to do with the addition of the jalapeño but it clashed with the sour notes in the dish in just a really weird way. And Vika. For a returning chef, there's just no excuse for over cooking a breast like that. It's just too basic. I don't know if you were just going for too much and over shot it or what, but this was a miss."

Vika nodded gravely. Caroline squeezed her shoulder in solidarity. Each of the remaining chefs began to feel the tightness in the chests unclench, knowing there would only be three chefs up for elimination.

"And Andy." He fucking knew it. "First of all, I'm surprised to see you here today. How are you?"

Andy averted his gaze, eyes stinging. He'd hoped they'd brush past all this. 

"I'm ok."

Tom nodded. Eva sat beside Tom silently, taking in the resigned expression on his face and registering something on Andy's. Pain? Embarrassment? 

"Why, Tom? Why are you surprised he's here?"

He ignored the question. "Well, Andy, I'm glad to see you. But I'm utterly baffled by what you served today. It was just a pan fried fish. It was aggressively bland. It was so far off from failing that it looped back around and failed. You went wrong by doing nothing."

"I get it." Andy rolled his eyes. "I fucked it all up. It was this - this is, uh, pan fried snapper and lemon aioli with red potatoes. It was supposed to be a cornmeal encrusted skillet fried dish, and I uh... ran out of time."

"I see. That's too bad. I've had some great fish from you previously, just a few months ago when you still had the restaurant and -"

"Had?" Domi poked her head out of the line up of chefs, concerned fingers twisting the hem of her chef's coat.

Eva let out a small gasp, chastising herself for not having read the depth of Andy's emotions earlier. He stared at the ground not wanting to confront the confusion in everyone's eyes. The questions they'd all have for him backstage. Even Roger looked sympathetic.

"Had," he squeezed the word out. He wracked his brain for something else to say, to move past the moment. "Sorry if I've been a grouchy cunt the last two days."

A shocked laugh fought it's way out of everyone's throat, stifled guffaws erupting out of the judges until they allowed themselves to laugh. Novak slapped a hand over his mouth. Stan clapped him on the back with enough force to knock Andy off the little black X he'd been told to stand on. Maria scowled, footage of the moment ruined because of his foul mouth. He shrugged at her, at least he'd have a small moral win for that.

"Well," Tom's smile faded. "It's so tough to make a decision when it's clear all three of you are talented chefs who just had bad days. Unfortunately, one of you has to go home." He looked to Venus, shuffling off the worst part of his job to the unflappable woman beside him. She sucked in a breath.

"Victoria. Please pack your knives and go."

Vika pursed her lips and nodded quickly. She'd simply made an error too elementary to be overlooked. "Thank you for having me here. I'm disappointed I could make more of it."

A producer swooped in quickly and led her to a booth for her final interview. They'd later keep her for another hour, shooting wide shot footage of her dramatically packing knives into a canvas roll and walking down a backlit hallway. Maria corralled the others out of the judging area and into a cramped pantry filled with folding chairs. Their waiting room was stocked with a central table full of wine bottles and crystal glasses. The chefs descended on them instantly.

Grigor approached Andy, hands crammed into his pants pockets. He slowly lifted his foot, a dark boot making contact with Andy's leg sheepishly.

"Hey."

It wasn't his fault, not really. Andy wanted to beat the living tar out of him, but the list of things he wanted to do to Grigor didn't end quite there. He tried to summon the words to explain it all.

"What happened to your restaurant?" Domi barged in between them, either not reading the interaction or not caring. Andy figured a bit of both. "Hey Judy was, like, a big thing! You guys were on the map!"

"That place was you?!" Nick streamed into the waiting room with the remaining contestants. "I've actually been there a bunch. You have some bomb ass scotch eggs."

Half the room swooned in agreement. And hadn't expected so many of his competitors to know the tiny restaurant.

"Come on, it was a glorified diner. Whatever." He plucked a glass off the table, bit a half-removed cork inside a bottle of pinot grigio and spat it across the table.

Roger stepped forward, wine glass held forward expectantly. "Wow, Andy. You really just don't get it."

"No! And I'm getting sick of being reminded. You're the second person to say that to me today and the least cute saying it."

Roger held the wine glass to his nose, wafting the aroma, no doubt picking up notes of some sort of flower Andy was too crass or Scottish or common to know about. He flicked a strand of his hair behind his ears, brushing Andy's comment aside with a simple motion.

"Look," he sipped his wine and looked Andy in the eyes with something dangerously close to sincerity. "It's a TV show, guy. There are producers. Make up artists. Gaffers, techies, assistants. Story writers! Chrissake, Andy, which character will you be when they tell this story on TV? You control your edit. And right now, you might want to aim for more than Grouchy Cunt."

"It sounds so inelegant when you say it." Andy kicked at a dark scuff on the floor.

"So what happened?" Domi wiggled an empty glass in front of him, he poured it with a huff and passed the bottle to someone else.

"Floods. It was essentially an English basement right along the river. Even with insurance, we could barely swing overhead costs while waiting to reopen. Unless the timing was just right. Then Palomar, the little hotel above us, blew the transformer before we were set to reopen. The freezers... all that inventory... We could take one punch to the mouth but not two."

The others nodded solemnly. Andy drained his glass in a singular gulp.

"So maybe tell them THAT at panel next time," Roger said, pouring him another glass.

Andy considered it. Next panel. And the next and next. They were staring down a gauntlet of competition that was only going to get more demanding, with producers that were only going to pry deeper into his failures, with cameramen that would be there to record his lame attempts to pretend he hadn't lost everything before signing up for the show, hadn't considered becoming some sort of cruise ship sous chef just to get away from this scene, these contestants who all knew him and his much-loved sparsely-attended shipwreck of a restaurant. And it had all just begun.

Andy put his glass down on the table and turned sharply. He trained his eyes on Grigor, long strides taking him towards the miserable looking man sulking behind the crowd. Andy stepped forward, a leg brushing against the tall brunette, one arm wrapping around his back, and pulled Grigor's lips to his own. Grigor waved his arms in shock, surprised at the strength in Andy's arms, before realizing, relaxing, and kissing him back. Lips parting and breath catching as he slowly responded to the other man before Andy pulled away, as suddenly as he'd started.

"You're too handsome for my own good, boyo."

Andy grabbed a wine glass from Roger's hand, tipped it back into his mouth, tossed it back to him, and walked out of the room. He walked back through the sound stage, judges and producers reviewing footage and chatting about shooting schedules. He brushed past Vika, glum and resolute, on her way through the room as he finally stepped into the confessional booth, lame tarps strung together to create the illusion of privacy. He sat down on the stool in the middle of the makeshift room, waiting for Maria to acknowledge him.

"You're not supposed to be in here yet."

Andy rolled his eyes again. "Well I won't stay long. Fuck it. I quit."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kind words and kudos. Y'all are the best! It's a huge pleasure to know this makes sense when removed from my brain.


	3. Episode Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alliances form. Noodles are undercooked. Genie becomes obsessed with a trashcan.

Andy should be happy, thrilled, about the day. Instead he found himself standing in front of the judges, jaw clenched tight enough to ache. But he'd always had the ability to turn a party into a wake. He had the keys to a brand new car in his pocket, loudly jangling around while he cooked until they snagged on a hole in the lining. Win a Quick Fire, win a car. It'd been that easy. Even more satisfying was the look in Roger's eyes when he tasted Andy's winning dish, a pancetta and artichoke spaghetti topped with sautéed ramps. He liked it, dammit. Even Roger had to admit it.

"Ramps," he nodded at Andy "so trendy in 2010. I like the retro flair."

Roger had the winning backhanded compliment, but Andy had the winning dish.

But now that match was ending, and Andy didn't like the score. No one did, from the looks of the stunned faces around him. He'd been in the top three in the final challenge, losing out to some inspired Korean-style barbecue chicken wings that proved maybe Genie knew what she was doing after all. And still he found himself suddenly ready to boil over.

"Roger," Venus pursed her lips, surveying the three bottom chefs. She shook her head, a reluctant executioner raising the axe. "Roger, I'm sorry. Please pack your knives and go."

"This is horseshit!" The sentence burst out of Andy. "No way. Roger! Come on, man!"

Roger smiled weakly, entirely genuinely, and Andy felt even worse. The match had been fixed and no one else was willing to admit it. Andy might have wanted to beat Roger - sometimes physically - but this wasn't the kind of win he wanted.

"You were set up."

Rafa cleared his throat from the judges table. "In the end, its texture was too, too chewy. Too much. We have to choose the worst dish each time, and today is Roger."

Rafa had won this competition a few seasons ago. If anyone understood the kind of gamesmenship that occurred in the kitchen, it was him. He also knew good food when he tasted it, and Roger's egg noodles were near impossibly chewy. The judges had actually broken down into giggles, cartoonishly working their jaws and staring at each other in disbelief. How could a dish go this far wrong?

Roger thanked the judges with all the grace Andy lacked. He lingered for one moment to hug a blurry eyed and red nosed Stan, and exited the studio with a wave of producers. The other chefs were left in a stunned silence. Grigor approached Andy, aware the Scot was quietly seething.

"Hey, demandy-Andy. What's all that about?" He scrunched up his face and pointed towards the hallway. When Andy didn't answer he decided to push his luck, putting both hands on Andy's shoulders. "You started the day with no car and an extra Roger. Now, it's flipped. You couldn't beat that with a belt." Grigor's English phrases were decidedly American.

Andy shook the hands off his shoulders dramatically, heaving a sigh. He'd let Maria talk him into staying on the show. She promised him it'd be worth it in the end. And he promised himself he wouldn't get distracted by a pretty face. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on that heavy brow and squared jaw, that boyish grin and- _dammit, Andy!_

"I'm not-" he shook himself one more time, just for good measure "happy. I mean sure, yeah, Roger is a self-satisfied moth ball but... You don't think he just forgot to boil a pot of homemade noodles until the last minute. Someone turned that range off. They distracted him, and turned it off."

Domi shouldered in between them, excited. "What are we whisper fighting about? Did you guys kiss again?"

"No," fortunately Andy's mouth worked faster than his brain. Grigor stared at a particularly interesting ceiling beam instead of looking anyone in the eye.

Novak threw his arms around Andy and Grigor, leaned his head against Domi's in the center of their newly formed conspiracy circle. "I actually don't buy that either. Not from Roger. But," he twirled the invisible mustache he couldn't grow, "I have a plan."

-

The ride back to the penthouse was tense. Caroline, Genie, Nick and Aga chatted idly, commenting on how it was unexpectedly chilly for this time of year, how being on the show provided a nice break from reading about politics, not saying out loud that they'd rather distract themselves with a string of nothings than to face a silently miserable Stan. He leaned his forehead against the window and said nothing, rocking forward and leaving a small streak against the glass every time the van came to a stop. He'd left an oil smear worthy of Van Gogh by the time the five chefs piled out of the van and plodded into the penthouse.

Caroline kicked off her white sneakers and sank into her bed. The show's evening producers had allowed her bunk mates, and Grigor, to stick behind to check out Andy's new car. As far as she was concerned, Andy could keep the shiny new BMW forever. She just wanted these next 20 minutes to herself.

"Hey. Caroline. Caroliiiiiiine! Hey." Nick stuck his brushy head into the room, a hand curled around his mouth for acoustics. "The, um, other ladies want to see you."

The bed itself wouldn't let her settle, let alone Nick and a very expectant Aga and Genie. They'd changed into baggy comfort-wear and were pulling at the hems of their shorts and biting their nails when Caroline dragged herself into the Champagne Room. They were practically vibrating, fingers pointing in every direction.

"Who did it?!" Aga nodded towards a trash can, eyebrows raised to the sky.

Caroline craned over the trash. For a moment she was offended to see someone had eaten a Cup O Noodles and tossed it into the garbage. Until she saw it. Her eyes widened and she didn't bother to suppress a grin. Who DID it?!

"Staaaan!" Nick yelled. When they didn't receive an answer, he charged into the empty room. He reemerged into the Champagne Room, dragging a weary Stan by the collar.

Genie tapped her foot against the floor in excitement. "Stan, baby. I know this isn't the time, but... Did you throw your condom wrapper into the Champagne Room trash?"

Stan blinked repeatedly. Were they kidding with this? He'd just watched helplessly as the love of his life, the man he'd just reconciled with after months apart, was forced to leave him under circumstances that could only be called suspicious.

"What?"

"Is that from you, bro?"

Stan looked at Nick, dumbfounded. He grasped for the phrases, the curses, to tell him just how insulting the moment was. To verbalize the ethereal qualities of pain and reconciliation in a language he still didn't trust as his own. Instead, he came out with-

"No. We didn't use- don't... No."

An awkward blush swept the crowd like wildfire, cheeks reddening. Nick shook the thought from his consciousness.

"Sooo," Genie turned to the others, "someone else - two someones elses - hooked up. Who did it?"

They passed their glances in a silent accusation circle. Stan, grateful for the trash can distraction, still lingered on Genie. Aga, Nick, and Caroline glanced from the trash can to each other like bobble heads.

Stan massaged his temples. "Why not one of them?" He attempted to look through the plain white walls where Andy, Novak, and Domi had all bunked up with Caroline.

The room agreed. Someone - or some team - had turned off Roger's stove top. Someone had hooked up in the Champagne Room in the two weeks in the house. Why not one of Andy's little clique? Or why not two of them?

-

Andy darted his eyes back and forth, practically running down the dimly lit corridor in the back of the studio. 

"Obviously," he spoke over his shoulder while Grigor, Domi, and Novak struggled to keep up "Genie is the prime suspect. She came in second the first main challenge, and with Roger eliminated - won the second one."

"If she's prime, then you're... sub-prime?" Novak struggled to make an analogy. Domi perked up.

"Suspect Zero!" she nearly shouted, prompting the other three to shush her as they power walked down the hallway. "Sorry," she whispered.

Ok, sure, Andy may have been the most vocally anti-Roger, but that's only because the other contestants didn't know how insufferable he could be under all those layers of charity and kindness. Roger Federer single handedly caused Andy's night time bruxism.

Andy cleared his throat, then didn't bother to say anything. He didn't sabotage Roger, but realized he'd be considered guilty until he proved himself innocent. He shrugged, heaving his shoulders up and down as if that communicated his thoughts to the others.

Novak laughed. "Good defense. Shrugging."

"He didn't do it," Domi said. "I was beside him the entire time. Me, him, and Aga were all at the grill top the entire time - prep to plating." Three solid alibis.

"Then it was Stan," Grigor piped up. The other glared at him. "C'mon. They haven't left each other's side since the first day. He had access."

Andy hated the idea too much to justify it. Stan took the elimination harder than Roger. His chance to rebuild their relationship abruptly ripped away. But the point couldn't be dismissed. If someone had turned off Roger's burner - and there was no way to believe Roger when he said it must had been his mistake - Stan had proximity.

Nick and Genie had wandered between stations, selecting produce and charring proteins in a way that had seemed innocuous, but suddenly seemed nefarious in retrospect. But was either of them competitive enough to take out Roger without being noticed? Caroline had made a show of fighting with a deep fryer, possibly to throw folks of her trail. Few things were more dangerous than a beautiful woman with a deep fryer, but she simply seemed too nice to sink to cheating.

"Ok. This is it." Andy tried the doorknob of the Tape Room, unsurprised when it wouldn't turn. There were too many suspects, too many motives, to prove anything without footage from the day. Producers, particularly Maria, had been tight lipped when Andy had protested, so he had to rely on the tale of the tape.

"I figured!" Tom Colicchio, long time judge and practical mascot of the the show, tottered down the hallway, stuffed with contestant dishes and one too many glasses of wine. "You're not allowed back here. Andy. Andy, I suspected. Ya pesky shit. The rest of you... you could get kicked off for this, you know?"

Andy narrowed his eyes at Domi and wheezed a simple "Fix it" at her as Tom wrapped his arms around Andy and squeezed him with full force. There was no time for subtlety.

"Tom!" She shouted for no actual reason. He released Andy and looked at her, startled. "Ugh... Tom. Hi. Hi, Tom! It's such an honor to meet you outside of the kitchen. I... We're all looking for Andy's new car. The producers let us stay behind to check out his BMW." That was actually true.

"But-" Novak jumped in front of Tom, shaking his hand with manic glee. "But - we think Andy is just too drunk to actually drive. We're here to drive him home, if you can show us the way. It's baby's first BMW."

Tom closed his eyes, swinging his weight on to his heels and forward again. Yes. Yes he could absolutely show them a new car. This was the best part of his job. He smiled and pointed the way back down the corridor through half shut eyes, relieved to enjoy a part of his job that didn't involve sending home his favorite contestants.

Andy and Grigor simply stayed put. Andy quietly pressed his new car keys into Novak's hand as he walked away and watched them lead Tom down a hallway that almost certainly didn't lead to wherever his new car was stashed. Do they even have the car near the studio for things like this? Domi tried to glance back at Andy, busy guiding Tom away towards parts unknown.

Grigor literally held his breath until Tom had turned the corner, releasing a deep exhale when they were out of sight. He turned to Andy, concern etched on his face.

"They didn't ask. No, _you_ didn't ask if I did it." He looked at Andy, his eyes glistening saucers.

Because you don't think I'm smart enough to come up with a plan and actually execute it, he didn't bother to say out loud. Andy sucked in air, fully hearing the unspoken accusation.

"I want to believe you're better than that," Andy said, only realizing he was telling the truth a few moments later.

"We both have something to prove then, me and you," Grigor said, reaching out for Andy's hand.

"I." He couldn't stop himself from correcting the grammar. "You and I - have something to... never mind. Fuck. Sorry." Andy cursed himself, painfully slow to pull his hand from Grigor's. Something about the younger man trying so hard, vying so earnestly for his affection, chaffed Andy. He rarely dealt in sincerity and hated himself for not being able to trust it. But it was too like Roger's elimination. Nothing that comes easy, no win that seeks him out, can be trusted.

Grigor leaned forward, pulling him closer, and leaned his chin against Andy's shoulder. Andy's body froze, his mind raced. He scrambled for something to say, grasping for a form of protest or an acknowledgment of pleasure. Andy was suddenly aware of his lips, the dryness of his mouth and the warm sensation of their chests pressed together. Andy stifled a gasp as he felt Grigor's hand run down his side and slide into his pocket.

"Ugh. We shouldn't. I do, but -"

"Give me your credit card, mumbles." Grigor rummaged in Andy's pants long enough to fish out a leather wallet. It'd never been stretched by too many bills, but time had weathered it well. Beaten by denim pockets and cloth aprons, by nights left on cooling stove tops and days in sunny windows while Andy cooked food he couldn't afford himself, saving for the opening of his own restaurant.

He pulled out a scuffed credit card and tossed the battered wallet back to Andy, who tried to stand up straight and preserve an invisible amount of dignity after their close contact. Grigor grabbed the doorknob of the Tape Room with one hand and jammed the credit card flush against the lock mechanism with the other.

Grigor smiled at Andy, his entire face brightening when he felt the lock give. 

"See," he turned the knob, "I can be useful."

It was all the will power Andy could muster to not imagine the ways he could use Grigor, his desire nearly made explicit by the tightness of his chinos. He fought the signs that he'd been rattled by a strong hands in his pants and an easily picked lock.

"That's some slick handiwork," he said.

Grigor pushed the door open slowly, turning back to smile at Andy.

"Gross."

-

At this point, even Stan was a little curious. Genie sat on the floor, pen in hand as she scribbled down a series of dotted lines, a conspiracy theorist gone off the rails. He'd been cleared, admitting he and Roger had absolutely enjoyed the privacy of the Champagne Room but weren't the type of couple to leave evidence behind. Genie was too invested in the gossip to possibly be the perpetrator, and he suspected Novak wasn't the type of guy to keep quiet long enough to pull off a secret tryst.

"It's Andy," he said. "I saw that kiss. That passion."

Caroline yawned. She was losing out on valuable alone time, her other roommates still back at the studio, and she was never much for who done its. "Fine, it was Andy. We're done here, yeah?"

"No! Are you crazy?" Genie shook the trash for emphasis. "First - it's not like you've got anything else to do tonight. Second - we already established it wasn't Andy. He's been avoiding Grigor like crazy."

"Poor Grigor," Aga said, dangling her foot off the bed to distract herself from the sight of Nick turning a Rubik's cube around with pricely zero strategy. Over the last two weeks she'd developed an unexpected bond with Grigor. Both still felt ties to - and pulled inspiration from - their childhood homes in a way the other chefs didn't. 

She understood the motivations of a stubborn heart, but hated Grigor's continued pursuit of Andy. Invitations for a drink, or a note on the bathroom mirror, were dismissed with a signature shrug of the shoulders and a change of subject. So far the only reward for his persistence was an ability to make Aga's heart ache. Even more cruelly, she saw how Andy couldn't keep himself away from Grigor, watched as he was drawn to her friend despite his self denial. They were magnets: desperately attracted to each other, until Grigor was forcibly pushed away.

Nick dropped the Rubik's cube from his hands. "Maybe Grigor gave him gonorrhea. I'm just saying, I've avoided people for that before."

"You what?!" Caroline was suddenly enraged. She pulled a handful of loose change from her pocket and hurled it at him. 

"What is your problem?" He fended off the last of her projectiles. "Ouch, dude. There were fucking quarters in there. I said 'have'. Past tense."

"It was you!" Aga sprang from the mattress. "You sneaky little fornicator." She prodded Nick's ribs with her finger.

"Oh my god!" Genie scrambled to her feet. "No way."

Caroline released a heavy sigh. "Oh my Gooood. Yes, it was us. Ok. And now I apparently need a series of shots and an alcohol bath. So, with that, I am going to bed."

Stan revealed a smile for the first time that evening, the corners of his eyes crinkling up in joy. "You do not hate each other as much as you pretend."

"Oh no, we do," Nick said, one long arm extended to keep Aga from poking him continuously. "But that's kind of part of the fun."

"This is sooo good." Genie looked up to one of the cameras mounted to the walls and raised her voice, "Are you guys getting this?!"

Caroline regretted not saving more items to throw. She shrugged at Stan. So she wasn't so sweet and innocent, sue her.

"Except," Nick said through gritted teeth, "that's not my brand." He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and flashed a distinctly different colored packet. "Lady Bowser over there throwing flaming hammers and ratting me out for no reason. Get it together, by the way."

"You said you had a disease!"

"I said HAD. If you hadn't said anything -. Whatever," he tossed the packet to Genie for proof. "That wasn't us."

Caroline was out the door and in her own bed before Genie could stop her. Aga muttered something at Nick that prompted him to stiff arm her again. Stan pocketed a mint Caroline had thrown on the floor and wandered into the kitchen.

Genie had so many questions. When did they sneak away? How did it start? Is Nick gangly in proportion? And if it wasn't Nick and Caroline, who the hell hooked up in this penthouse?

-

"Get out." Maria didn't bother looking up from the television monitor, scrolling through footage from the day's elimination.

"You've been in here the entire time?" Grigor handed back the chewed up credit card, his palm pressed against Andy's as long as possible. Andy let the touch linger for just a moment.

He approached her desk as she reluctantly swiveled her chair around. Maria wasn't going to kick him off the show, not after she'd spent hours convincing him to stay.

"What happened with Roger? He didn't just sod off and forget to turn on a burner. You know what? Don't tell me! Just review the footage and tell me how you kicked the man off when you know he got proper screwed."

Maria rolled her eyes. She didn't spend all her time corralling contestants and nursing their bruised egos just for them to come yell at her in an editing room. Especially Andy, who seemed dead set on manufacturing ways to annoy her. 

"Look. This mystery team thing is adorable, but I'm not having it. I have a job to do. A real job, not just flipping burgers. I've got editors calling in sick, I've got a room full of story writers waiting on notes, I've got -"

Andy's eyes narrowed on a clip board resting on the desk behind Maria. Story writers waiting on notes. He was suddenly reminded of Roger's advice from a week ago - they'll all be different people, different characters, when the show airs. Which meant jealous chefs weren't the only party with a motive to take out Roger. A producer could engineer some real drama by ousting a front runner and turning contestants against each other early in the season.

Maria followed his gaze to the clip board. She reached behind her chair and grabbed it, flipping it over to obstruct any notes as she finished her monologue "-and according to the camera crew, your penthouse is having some sort of sexy meltdown over the trash. So, please, get the hell out."

"What's on that clipboard?" Andy needed to know.

"Notes. My stuff. I don't have time for this." She made a show of turning around and pretending to stare at the monitor again.

Andy turned to Grigor, leaning in to whisper. The heat of his breath on Grigor's ear elicited a shiver that made Andy selfishly proud.

"I need you to block the door."

"What?" Grigor tried to whisper back but Andy was already in motion. He vaulted forward, wrestled the clip board from Maria and was out of the room before she was on her feet.

"Andy! You can't- I need my shit!" She ran at him, Grigor's lanky frame blocking the exit long enough for Andy to sprint down the hallway with the clipboard.

"I'm not proud of this!" he shouted down the hall. 

He twisted around to see Maria wasn't giving chase and skidded to a halt around the corner. Pages of shoot schedules and judges notes yielded no answers as he tore through them. He only had a minute or two before a security guard - or worse, Maria herself - would catch up to him.

He tried to decipher a series of handwritten notes, camera shots and industry jargon scribbled in the margins, when he spotted the bullet points scrawled on the back of another page. _Aga w/ pastry again. Three strikes?_

It hadn't actually occurred to Andy but he realized Aga had, in fact, baked some form of pastry for both main challenges. Boring the judges seemed as good a reason as any to be sent home. Was she destined for the chopping block regardless of how successful her next dish was? With clips of the judges warning her about making pastry inserted into earlier episodes as if she'd known all along? 'One Trick Pony' made for an understandable story line.

 _Caroline + Nick exploring?_ Andy wasn't sure what to make of the note, but the one beneath it made it perfectly clear. _Andy and Grigor yet?_

He sucked in a breath. He hadn't considered his love life, or lack thereof, would be on display. The word "yet" felt particularly galling, as if he was circling the drain and everyone but him knew it. He knew it. He'd noticed his gaze lingering too long on Grigor's lips, caught himself happily responding to the nickname, mumbles, that Grigor invented. But the note made it look so crass. So preordained. _Yet?_

"That smarmy fuck," the words slipped out of Andy's mouth as he fought the urge to crack the clipboard over his knee. He didn't want to believe it. Hated that producers had seen it happen and not said anything. He read it again and threw the clipboard into a trashcan. 

_Aga w/ pastry again. Three strikes?_  
_Caroline + Nick exploring?_  
_Andy and Grigor yet?_  
_Do we confront Stan?_

-

Juan let them listen to the radio as he drove the four chefs back to their penthouse. It'd taken nearly half an hour to track down Novak and Domi, who had let a drunken Tom Colicchio lead them through the studio until they found a sound stage used for Real Housewives' reunions. Security found them, sitting on the floor and passing around a long forgotten jeroboam of pinot grigio. 

The state of pop music hadn't changed in the last two weeks but the radio was a welcomed escape from the cultural and sensory deprivation the contestants were living in. Domi and Novak chatted with Juan, giddy on illicit wine and the joy of seeing Tom outside of judging. Andy sat in the back, staring forward as his mind tested different ways and places to confront Stan.

He turned to Grigor, a fading swatch of red still visible on his neck and cheek where Maria had made contact. 

"Hey. Thank you."

"Are you going to tell me what you saw?" 

His eyes pleaded. Andy fought the urge to kiss him, knowing he'd be plunging himself into a televised romance he wasn't prepared for if he gave in to temptation again.

"No," he said it to convince himself it was true. He didn't want to make it Grigor's problem, didn't want to somehow jinx whatever they had by association. He put his hand on Grigor's knee, hating himself for it, unable to resist. "You know you're... You're a really good guy."

The confusion was evident on Grigor's face. Andy's mixed signals baffled them both.

"It was Stan." Grigor whispered it so the others couldn't hear. The instant shock in Andy's eyes confirmed his suspicions. "Oh man. That sucks."

"How did- what makes you say that?" Andy said it as quietly as possible.

"Because you look like someone crapped in your cornflakes."

"That is absolutely not a phrase."

"It is! I once spent a summer in New Jersey."

Andy allowed himself to laugh. Pressed his shoulder into Grigor's. "You're not so bad at this detective stuff, you know?"

"I couldn't think of anything that would make you look so - so injured. Yeah? You don't fool anyone, Andy Murray. You were rooting for love."

Andy flexed his jaw, struggling not to reveal anything more with his reactions. Who did this guy think he was?

"That's a bold theory, boyo."

Grigor's gaze shifted to the hand still on his knee. He licked his lips, leaned forward, then stopped himself and reclined back into his seat.

"I'll wait, you know. If you need me to."

Andy nodded, certain the sound of his heart pounding in his chest could be heard over the radio.

"Wait for what?!" Domi twisted around in her seat, both hands pulling at the head rest. "What're we waiting for?"

Andy laughed. Grigor sunk deeper into his seat in irritation, the moment punctured.

"Nothing!" Juan yelled from the driver's seat. "Because we're here. Out, or the ghost of Maria will come haunt you all."

They climbed out of the van and into the penthouse. The other chefs pretended to ignore them while swallowing their jealousy, believing the four had spent the evening joy riding in Andy's new car instead of stealing production notes and liquoring up a judge.

Juan followed them in, sweeping through the house to ensure none of the cameras had been covered up or damaged. He walked into the Champagne Room, gently shaking cameras and checking wires. Despite Maria's fears of tampering, all were in tact. He was relieved her paranoia hadn't yet been justified. Each season she trusted the contestants less and less. He flicked the lights on and off to test the cameras, mechanical irises adjusting to low lighting. He surveyed the room for any telltale signs of use. He tossed a bag of takeout containers in the trash, happy to have them out of his van, and closed the door.

"You!" Genie appeared out of nowhere. "It was you!"

"Me? Soy Juan Martin. The camera guy. We've met."

"No, I know who you are. You're like 8 feet tall. What did you just do?"

"... Checked cameras?"

"And then?"

Novak wandered past them, disappearing into his bedroom with a fresh bottle of wine and muttering "No and then." A visibly wobbly Domi followed close behind. Juan suddenly understood how living in the penthouse could drive some chefs crazy.

"You threw something in the trash!" Genie opened the door and came back out, rattling the trash can.

"Sure," Juan shrugged. "We do."

"We?!" Genie practically shouted it. Juan had no idea why she was about to lose her mind. Had no idea what he'd just stepped in.

"You're telling me that you - the entire crew, just throws shit away in our trash?"

"Most people aren't so possessive about rubbish. Are you guys not getting fresh air in here?"

Genie held the trash can above her head and spiked it on the ground. "Ugh! It could've been anyone!"

Andy strolled past them, clutching another bottle of wine, skipping over the trash spread around the floor and grumbling to himself. "Are you sure it wasn't Stan?"

Genie had no idea what he was talking about and was in no mood to figure it out. She stomped off, only to turn around and charge towards Juan again. 

"Or..." her eyes widened, "it wasn't two contestants. It was one. And one of you. The crew."

Aga stuck her head out of a bedroom door, obviously listening to the whole bizarre confrontation. "The producers! A contestant and a producer!"

"Yes," Genie whirled around between Aga and then Juan again, eyes ablaze. "Who's hooking up with a contestant?"

He held up both hands and shook his head. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"The condom! All the condoms!" She'd come completely unglued. "Is someone hooking up with a producer?!"

Her hair hung over her face and Juan realized she couldn't help the fact that she was beautiful. It haunted her, clung to her, undermined her. Here she was prepared to devour him in a rage, and he couldn't shake the stars out of his eyes. He had no idea if any of the producers were hooking up with contestants. Ethically, it was questionable at best. But he suddenly felt like he couldn't blame them for trying.


	4. Episode Three - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andy keeps falling. The chefs get crazy mouth.

Grigor wiggled the fork nauseatingly close to Andy's lips. Battered fish clung to the metal tines.

"Just try it!" He lunged forward. Andy dodged and held a cookie sheet up as a shield.

"No way, boyo! I could never trust sugary fish."

"You're no fun." Grigor quickly ate the forkful of fish, wincing for a brief moment. "Oh man. So glad this isn't an elimination challenge."

Aga pretended not to watch as Grigor and Andy got swept up in a flirtatious whirlwind, all giggles and playful nudges during the Quick Fire challenge. Andy was confident he'd made a winning dish and had wandered away from his work station. He was, Aga realized, physically incapable of staying away from Grigor for more than 10 minutes. And as much as she hated seeing her friend tortured by a fickle Scot, even she could admit Grigor was slowly making progress. One disgusting dish at a time.

Earlier, the contestants had all been give packets of Miracle Berries, trendy novelty berries designed to flip the taste sensations on the tongue, magically making sour foods taste sweet. Rafa had emerged from backstage in a gigantic lemon outfit to explain today's Quick Fire challenge: make a sweet dish highlighting traditionally non-sweet ingredients.

Their expert palettes couldn't be trusted. Brows furrowed as Genie swallowed a seemingly sweet spoonful of vinegar with ease. Nick rubbed his tongue raw eating a mound of limes that somehow tasted like they'd already become a key-lime pie. And Aga reel as the always sour Andy had slowly but surely become sweet on Grigor.

Grigor spent the first ten minutes of the challenge eating bleu cheese crumbles by the handful and laughing uncontrollably. Months later, his most liked Instagram video would show him jamming cheese into his mouth, his body shaking with laughter, as his dialogue looped. "It tastes like cheesecake... It's just cheese!"

Nick and Genie were concerned he'd finally lost it. Andy found Grigor's mania entirely endearing. The man had an endless capacity for joy, an ability to make a fool of himself in front of others without fear, and a gigantic mouthful of cheese.

Grigor decided on making fish and chips for his Quick Fire challenge after having his mind blown by the new taste of vinegar. Aga yanked on his sleeve before he pulled the fresh catch out of the walk-in refrigerator.

"Hey. Have you ever made fish and chips?" She studied his face for a reaction. "Stick to what you know! Why make a new dish for first time here?"

"Ok. Sure," he said while lifting a slab of fish off a tray. "But, one - that means I'll have beginner's luck. And B - if I'm in over my head I'll just ask Andy."

Aga swallowed her protest. She knew a lost cause when she saw it. If Andy proves to be anything but a distraction for Grigor then she'd eat her hat. 

And now, as they chased each other around with a disgusting vinegar drenched sweet-tasting chunk of fried fish, she was prepared to buy a fedora and start chewing. Andy also warned Grigor against the dish, and when he couldn't convince the younger man to cook another, he shared his restaurant's recipe to the signature plate - pickle juice in the breading. Hey Judy's fish and chips had their own cult following; Andy whispered his recipe to Grigor as if it were on the back of a cereal box.

Andy spotted a splotch of barbecue sauce on the cuff of his sleeve. He licked it off, his eyes still bright from laughing earlier. "Got some on my wrist." His murmur damped by his sleeve. The sauce was surprisingly sweet thanks to the berries.

"You actually got some right here," Grigor motioned to his own bottom lip, jutting it out. "I can get it for you, if you want."

"Nice try." Andy smiled, wiped his face with the rest of his sleeve. Their first kiss had been an impulsive mistake on Andy's part. He was determined to make Grigor work for the second. Aga and a small army of producers muttered profanities under their breath, all willing the romantic bud to bloom.

Venus approached Novak's station, her eyes narrowing in on the bright dish resting on his pale white plates.

"As you know, I have an intolerance to gluten and cannot eat many of my favorite things. But with these berries," he pushed plates towards each of the judges and rubbed his hands together, "WIth these berries, some things can taste like things they are not. Today, I have made a whipped meringue on a graham cracker, dusted with lemon and orange peel."

Venus devoured the dish in one bite, chewing deliberately and refusing to reveal any facial expression. Rafa couldn't hide the delight from his face. He grabbed another meringue and walked to the next table as he smashed a second helping into his mouth.

"This," Andy drummed his index fingers against the table, "is chipotle short ribs with a Guiness glaze. Traditionally this would be a honey glaze, but the Guiness with the berries... Yeah." He finished his drum pattern and pointed at the dish.

He'd gone from skittish show quitter to fidgety front runner in a few short weeks. The other contestants hadn't failed to notice that the suspicious elimination of Roger had helped flip a switch. With Angelique and Roger gone, Andy became a cocky front runner too fast for coincidence.

Andy was entirely oblivious to the gaze of the other chefs. The stress of the competition proved to be the perfect distraction from the stress of his real life. Outside, he'd have Jamie pitching him new business ventures or old vendors calling for back payments. Inside, Andy was happy to learn about flavor swapped bleu cheese and to teach Grigor how to bread fish. He'd have to eventually deal with Stan, and the constant presence of a camera crew was hard to forget, but the singular focus of the competition allowed Andy to escape into his own appetites.

Watching the infamous poker face on Venus melt for just a moment, her eyes closing as she savored the bite of spicy and sweet short rib, Andy's focus was rewarded.

Rafa licked his fingers. "My own restaurant, we should worry about this dish, no?" He gave Andy a wink and walked off to the next table.

Nine dishes later, Venus addressed the contestants. Rafa stood beside her quietly, still chewing on the last dish he'd tasted. 

"This was, truly, quite the flavor trip," she said. "I'm stunned at the inventive dishes you created with flavor palettes turned upside down. Rafael, would you like to announce today's Quick Fire winner?"

"Andy," Rafa shook his fist in shared triumph. "Your short ribs are amazing. I would love to have someone like you on my staff."

Andy chewed on his bottom lip, trying hard to avoid a smile. "Thank you. But I'm not sure your staff would fit me." Maria huffed, unsure if the network censors would allow her to use the line on air.

"Andy, congratulations." Venus smiled at him. He stared at the ground and tried to distract himself from the unusual praise, kicked at grants of rice on the floor as Venus continued to address the chefs. 

"... and it's gonly going to get harder for your next elmination challenge. In fact, we've called in some truly trustworthy tastebuds to help judge today's next challenge."

The curtains behind her parted briefly and a gray haired man stepped forward. He was tall, stern faced, casual in the way only the supremely successful can be. Andy lifted his gaze from the floor and felt the air squeezed out of his chest. 

Venus held out an arm in her best Vana White impression. "Please welcome eight-time James Beard award winner, Ivan Lendl."

Andy gripped the table to avoid falling over. Lendl had been his childhood idol. He'd followed his career, reading industry magazines and watching primetime specials as he engineered newly classic dishes and battled iron chefs on TV. The man was a living legend.

Lendl said something. Something warm and friendly and hilarious and perfect. Andy couldn't hear it and didn't totally register it, but the giddy laugh in his throat confirmed it. His ears buzzed. His laughter sounded far away. How could he possibly create a dish to impress Ivan Lendl?

"Hey, pssst. Lover boy." Nick spoke in a stage whisper towards Andy. "Are you okay or are you light headed from winning ten-thousand dollars on top of that new car?"

"What?!" Andy shouted. He hadn't heard his reward for their Quick Fire, distracted by fish and chips, then utterly derailed by the sight of Ivan Lendl.

"Ten thousand? I, um-." The studio lights flickered briefly, dimming from the outside and narrowing into the center. "That's Ivan Lendl," Andy managed to say his name before losing his grip on the table, the lights of the room giving out as he hit the concrete.

-

It was Andy's classic bad luck that he didn't need mouth to mouth. Instead he woke up on a cot in a public bathroom, a trough-style urinal behind him and giant soap dispensers menacing above him. He made out the shapes of Domi and Grigor as his eyes fluttered. 

"He's awake!" She was out the swinging doors to alert producers before Andy could react. A burst of natural light flooded the room. Andy tried to make sense of his surroundings and didn't bother putting up a fight as Grigor reached down to grab a clammy hand. 

"Can I help you?" He looked up at Grigor, unfairly handsome despite the fluorescent lights. The room smelled like moth balls.

"God, yes! Tell me how you made those short ribs."

Andy tried to laugh, the sound coming out as a dry cough. He cleared his throat, frustrated he couldn't think of a witty comeback. 

"This is awkward."

"You're just saying that because you're on your back and I've still got my pants on." Grigor squeezed his hand, his grin somewhere between flirtatious and concerned.

"You," Andy weakly lifted a hand to make contact with Grigor's jaw. "You think you're clever."

Grigor squeezed his hand. "I've never been accused of clever."

Andy hummed, a signature sound when in thought. Smart, mean, incisive jabs came to him naturally. He had a million adjectives to provide to Roger. Or these days, Stan. But his retort to Grigor now was a simple shrug.

"Then not enough people know what I know."

Andy thought it was actually a pretty smooth line, but as producers and a camera crew took over the room he couldn't see Grigor's reaction. He felt a brief tug on his wrist and suddenly he was upright, gangly Juan in his face with a bottle of water.

"I'm fine. Jesus. You'd think I'd chopped off a limb." Andy unscrewed the bottle of water. "But I really do have to use the bathroom, if you could please leave." 

-

When the show aired on TV, his nail-biting Quick Fire win and dramatic fainting would play into a completely different plot point. In reality, he was simply a starstruck fan with low blood pressure. 

A bag of saline later, Andy joined the other chefs already lined up inside Clijster Stadium, the enormous green baseball diamond contrasting with white chef coats in every camera shot. 

Lendl surveyed the assembled contestants. "Chefs, for your main challenge today, you'll be making gourmet dishes for me and the judges. Using only the ingredients and equipment in the food stands within the stadium. We've provided a cart of a few extra ingredients you can choose from, but the majority of your dish must be from the ballpark food. You have one hour. Play ball!"

The chefs scattered, Nick and Genie nearly sprinting through the stadium to claim a work station and the best ingredients they could get their hands on. Hot dog buns, giant pretzels, pumps full of nacho cheese. Andy knew not to go with anything already packed with flavor, but let the others grab wildly as he made his way to an open work station.

"Hey!" Grigor popped up from behind a counter with an armful of potatoes.

Andy jumped, gripped the counter to steady himself. "Maybe don't spring out from hiding places for the rest of the day. For my sake, yeah?"

Grigor dumped his potatoes onto the countertop, arms flexed. "Maybe don't keep following me then."

"I didn't, I-" Andy felt himself blush. "Don't flatter yourself."

Grigor's grin suggested he already had. He pointed to the open work station beside him, a metal mall food cart stacked high with dishes. A large plastic sign dangled from the ceiling.

"Serving Up Dingers! ... Not very dignified," Andy failed to suppress a smile. "And a bit presumptuous of you, boyo."

Grigor shrugged with a potato in each hand. "A boy can dream."

Andy rolled his eyes and plodded over to the cart. Whatever they were, dingers were the last thing he could let himself think about right now. He rifled through ingredients under the shelves and inside the mini-fridge, eventually finding a useful ingredient. But he still needed two more things - to find a grill top, and to get away from the carb wielding distraction one work station over.

-

He wandered half of the stadium in search of a food stand stocked with jalapeños. He hurdled up a cement stairwell, bashing his shoulder into a wall to avoid colliding with Aga when she appeared on the steps. 

"Oh god! Sorry! So sorry."

"It's ok-" she placed a hand on Andy's chest and caught her own breath. Her chef's coat was half unbuttoned and she struggled to hold on to an oversized bag of flour with one arm. "Whew. I'm ok. You ok?"

Andy nodded. He pulled at his collar and realized his coat was still buttoned entirely. "Jalapeños?"

"Upstairs. There's a hot dog stand with all sorts of ingredients."

Andy hadn't said more than five words to Aga in the week's they'd been in the house, but they knew their common link. He knew the two had become fast friends, which meant she either loved Andy or hated him. More than once he caught her staring as the two men laughed over a drink or threw ice cubes at each other while prepping dinner, her sharp gaze a reminder that he'd let himself drift back to Grigor despite promising he wouldn't get lost in him again.

Aga stared at him now, trying to choose her next words carefully. She wriggled to change her grip on the bag of flour.

"I actually care about him," she finally said. "Like, I don't want to see him get his heart broken. By you, to be specific. He can handle rejection. But no one can handle being left in limbo. Never knowing. So. Don't be that guy... Do you know where I can find some eggs?"

Andy swallowed, his mind whirling. "None on the second floor, skip it." 

She made it down half a flight of stairs before he stopped her.

"Wait! Hey! Flour. Eggs. Don't make a pastry, if that's what you're thinking."

"Well, I'm a pastry chef. So... why not?"

"Because if you keep serving up puff balls..." Andy realized he couldn't reveal how he knew the producers planned to eliminate Aga over her insistence on baking sweets. With cameras surrounding them everywhere in the stadium, he couldn't explain his theft of Maria's notes. And he still hadn't decided what to do about Stan, choosing to avoid him for the last few days instead. Revealing the betrayal to a very vocal Aga would only make things worse.

"Just, show some range."

Her eyes flashed. Andy immediately regretted his choice of words. 

"Show some range? How about - grow a fucking pair, Andy. Grigor. Staying on the show. Making pastries. Some of us don't change our mind on everything every other day. Some of us can admit what we want. Try it some time."

Andy could hear one of the camera men around the corner whisper "oh shit" and laughing into a headset as Aga stomped away.


	5. Episode Three - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tablecloths are ruined. Lendl wants more than porcelain cups. Grigor decides ties are optional.

By the time he hunted down jalapeños and cortija, Andy had mere minutes to assemble his dish before Ivan Lendl himself would be there to try it. He ran through the stadium back to the "Serving Up Dingers!" food cart, his arms full of spices, jalapeños, cheeses.

He couldn't blame Aga for snapping at him, even if he was trying to help. He couldn't properly warn her or he'd risk actually being kicked off the show. And as much as Aga clearly wanted it, he couldn't risk letting himself get more involved with Grigor. He'd already made that mistake, nearly bombing out in the first official challenge as a result.

Grigor, with his excitable nature and enthusiasm for whatever was placed in front of him. His ability to turn the banal into something worthy of yet another Snapchat story or Twitter post through sheer force of will. Grigor, with his ridiculous sailor hat and-

"What the hell is that?" Andy tried not to laugh as he strategically placed his ingredients on cart shelves.

"What? This?" Grigor pointed up towards the tri-corner paper hat barely resting on his head. "Well this is just an extra menu and some skilled hands."

"I see." Andy pulled a cob of corn off the hot dog rollers he'd used to cook it and sliced the tender kernels in long strips.

"I made baskets to serve my dish and had extra. Baskets can also be hats. Like so." He pointed to his hat with a smirk. Somehow the man could make paper accessories look surprisingly sexy.

"And," he reached under a counter, "and and and. I made you this, so your stand could be more dignified." He made his way to Andy's food cart with long strides, reaching up and placing something over Andy's head and onto his shoulders before the Scot could react.

"Mmm ok? It's a... an ascot?"

"It's a tie!" Grigor looked pleased with his handiwork.

Andy inspected his makeshift tie. "Made from empty hot dog bun bags?"

"You're welcome."

Grigor ran back to his work station as Lendl poked his head around a cement column, quickly followed by Venus, Tom, Rafa, and Eva. Andy made a mad dash to push as much corn into his pre-arranged cups as possible and ignored the judges as they approached Grigor.

He shook Lendl's hand with excitement. "It's such a pleasure to meet you. I actually didn't know who you were previously but there's a lump the size of a baseball on Andy's head that says you must be important."

Lendl laughed surprisingly hard, charmed by the candor of the young man. "I don't know much about you either, but I'm told you are very popular on the internet. Maybe after today we can know each other better."

"I'd like that," Grigor said, realizing he was still shaking Lendl's hand. It was the second time he'd been sucked into an extended handshake on the show. He pulled his hand away, turned to grab a paper basket, and gave one to each of the judges.

"This, is a basket of homemade chips. Or crisps, if you're English," he let his gaze drift towards Andy.

"British, sure!" Andy yelled. "But never English."

Grigor smiled for a moment before pulling his attention back to Lendl and the judges. "So these are a kettle cooked potato chip with a furikake seasoning made from seaweed, sesame seeds, cane sugar, and salt, with a chili aioli drizzle."

Lendl wasted no time diving into his basket and crunching on one chip and then another. He didn't bother hiding his joy as he tasted Grigor's dish.

"This dish is, technically, not too hard," he said between bites. "But it is exquisitely done. It is salty but spicy and full of umami. It is," he chomped loudly, "childish and yet very adult and entirely satisfying. The risk was worth it." Andy couldn't help feeling like Lendl was trying to speak to him while talking about Grigor's dish.

"And Mr Murray. You, I've heard plenty about. I'm sorry I never made it to Hey Judy." Lendl turned towards Andy with a smile, a fleck of seaweed on his lower lip.

"Chef," Andy gave a terse nod. "First, I'd like to say what a pleasure it is to meet you. You've been my idol for some time, and it's an honor to serve you today. Even from behind an over heated metal cart." The judges laughed gently, Andy tried to steady himself in the presence of Lendl.

"I've made a traditional esquites, or elote, off the cob. It's grilled Mexican street corn slathered with a cream cotija cheese and a jalapeño-lime sauce. The corn was actually charred on the rollers of the hot dog - or dingers - machine and soaked in a mescal marinade to substitute the smokiness a grill would provide."

Tom had tipped his cup back and eaten a mouthful immediately. Lendl took a spoonful and chewed it deliberately. "Is that still warm?" He pointed to a cob of corn slowly turning over on the rollers of the dinger machine.

"Alright, yeah," Andy leaned down and plucked the corn off the rollers. He turned to grab his knife but stopped short, something pulling at his neck. He turned again but got stuck in the same position. A sudden tightness formed at his throat.

Andy coughed and his eyes widened, the plastic bag tie around his neck caught in the hot dog rollers and slowly pulling him into the greasy contraption.

"I, um," he pulled at it, the plastic stretching but never threatening to break. "Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck." He pulled frantically, now leaning forward awkwardly as his face was inched towards the hot plastic.

"Oh my God!" Venus panicked, not sure what to do. Tom ran behind the food cart, looking for an electrical socket to unplug. He threw trays and utensils to the ground, searching to find the cord in the wall. Andy put both hands on the hot dog machine and pushed, stalling his momentum but tightening the plastic around his neck.

"Fuc-ugghoww."

He suddenly reeled backwards, knocking against his food cart and turning it over in a loud clatter as he fell to the ground. He listened as the jalapeños and cheese rained down, followed by the noisy metal trays.

Andy had never fallen so much in his life. Until he met his idol.

"Figures," Andy muttered, leaning up on his elbows. He sat in a pile of corn, a plastic bag around his neck, his dignity nowhere to be found. Tom, Eva, Rafa, and Venus stared down at him, attempting to process what they'd witnessed. Next to them, Lendl was still focused on a cup of corn. He ate another spoonful with his eyes closed in concentration. Grigor hovered behind him with a guilty smile on his face, a paring knife in his right hand and half a plastic tie in his left.

"Ok, so don't be mad," he quickly jammed the plastic bag into his back pocket.

"Oh no," Lendl opened his eyes. "No one can be mad while eating this corn. Traditional. Modern. Smokey. Sweet. Spicy. This is everything."

"And everywhere," Andy surveyed the mess around him.

"Back of the house will always have disasters unseen," Lendl said before taking another shameless spoonful. "As long as the food tastes good, guests will never know. The disaster never happened."

Grigor seemed to be more relieved than Andy, dropping his paring knife and stepping forward to extend a hand. Andy pulled himself up, springing to his feet and immediately batting the tri-corner hat off Grigor's head. He kicked the folded paper into a pile of lime wedges scattered across the floor.

Grigor couldn't wipe the grin off his face as he watched the paper absorb a puddle of lime juice. "I liked that hat."

Andy rested both his hands on Grigor's shoulders and forced himself to exhale. He leaned forward, the scent of Grigor's shampoo and a seaweed soaked collar meeting him before he made contact with the younger man.

"Let's, um," Andy held back. His gaze slid to the judges. They stood silently, all full of chips and giddy with anticipation, desperate to witness a kiss they were all rooting for. Andy dropped his hands to his side and turned to face the judges, corn kernels clinging to his thighs.

Lendl plunked down his empty cup with a loud clank of porcelain against sheet metal.

"This choice of dish," he shook his spoon at Andy and Grigor, "was made with wit. It's smart. But that mescal marinade - that was passion. The flavor. So smokey and rich. You survive on wit. You win with passion. You can't - Andy - limit passion to a little white cup if you want to win."

He turned to the other judges. "You said there was desert?"

Rafa guided him through the stadium, a quiet mob of cameramen shuffling behind them or running in front to capture dramatic shots of the judges striding through the empty corridors on their way to judge Aga's dish. Andy brushed pieces of corn off his coat and onto the floor, piling up beside Grigor's soggy paper hat. Staring at the mess they'd made together, the barely contained disaster that may have produced the day's winning dish, Andy let himself admit it. He could barricade himself against chaos, put up walls and wish it away. Or he could invite it in. Hold it's hand. Kiss his lips. He could embrace the chaos that found him.

He waited to watch the judges turn the corner, climbing up the stairs to Aga's stand before -

"Aga's dish!" Andy's turned in a sudden panic, "Come on!"

He grabbed Grigor by the wrist and sprinted towards the stairs, meat thermometers and tasting spoons jangling in coat pockets.

"Shit shit shit shit."

Andy practically pulled the younger man up the stairs. They arrived at Aga's food stand, chests heaving, fingers intertwined. Grigor rested his free hand on his knee as he gulped down breaths.

"You can't - she shouldn't," he stood up straight to make his protest.

"Oh my God," Venus pulled a cookie away from her lips, a crescent moon bitten into the edge. "This is unreal. Oh my God."

Grigor tilted his head in confusion. Andy offered his usual shrug. "I guess they like it."

Rafa was already on his third cookie as he tried to speak, "This cookie is little bit not done. Uncooked on the bottom. Little bit."

Eva nodded. "I thought so, too., but it's actually the marshmallow fluff whipped into the batter. It creates a really gooey mouthfeel."

"Mouthfeel?" Grigor whispered to Andy.

"I'll show you later," he wanted to say. Instead it came out, "Yeah. It's a thing." He shook his hand loose from Grigor's as he felt his palms suddenly clam up.

"Grigor!" Aga spotted him behind the judges, short hair and angular face peaking out behind the softer countenance of Tom and Ivan Lendl. He stepped around the crowd as she held out an extra cookie.

"Chocolate chip. They're super American." She kissed him on each cheek, leaning close to whisper, "I see you brought company." Her smile widened as his flushed cheeks began to burn.

"You're welcome," she pushed two cookies at him and shooed him away. He crammed an impossibly soft cookie into his mouth, bulging cheeks colored with embarrassed and excited reds. He retreated to the stairwell and handed Andy the other cookie.

"What did she say?"

Grigor took a moment to chew, his head bobbing from side to side impatiently.

"She said, 'you're welcome.'"

-

"Chefs, it's clear this trip out to the ball game was no walk in the park. But for some of you, it was a real home run." Tom delivered the line with a straight face, barely fighting the urge to roll his eyes at the cue cards.

"Ok. That was awful." He slid the cards off the back of the table as the contestants released nervous titters. "But seriously. Some of you totally nailed it. Knocked it out of the park - if I have to stay on theme. And some of you just totally whiffed. Eva, who was your top dish of the night?"

"Domi," she pointed at the diminutive Slovak. "Any form of hot dog is expected under these circumstances. But your currywurst was truly surprising and well executed. Well done. Ivan?"

Lendl finally smiled, a slow, indulgent grin spreading across his face.

Andy felt his knees attempt to buckle when he heard his name escape Lendl's lips, but he clenched his jaw and willed himself upright.

"Andy. Today you were passionate in the kitchen. Keep that alive. I've never heard of Scottish Mexican food, but I liked it."

"Thank you, really." The words cleared Andy's throat without his own knowledge. He walked forward to stand beside Domi, who was giddy to see her friend join her in the top three.

Tom looked at the remaining contestants: Caroline, Nick, Stan, Aga, Grigor, Genie, and Novak lined up shoulder to shoulder.

"Grigor," Andy was shocked at the excitement he felt in hearing Grigor praised.

Tom beamed. "Grigor. Those chips could be served in any park in the country and be a big hit. We loved them. Well done."

Grigor seemed to be more stunned than anyone as he joined Domi and Andy in the top three. He entered the competition with one goal in mind - gain followers. He never truly considered winning. Suddenly he stood shoulder to shoulder with Domi and Andy in today's top three. And if winning meant seeing more of that pride in Andy's face, it might be worth the effort.

"Which means," Venus shook her head, "that we must choose the least successful dishes of the night. Caroline - I love that you wanted to tackle something as traditional as ballpark nachos. But your deconstructed dish came down to little more than cheese and chips."

Caroline nodded. She was the first to admit her dish never fully formed in her mind. She stepped to the side and stared at the ground, not bothering to defend herself.

"Stan," Venus continued. "I wanted so much more from your latke. I don't know if you just ran out of time or what exactly happened, but these were more oil than ingenuity today."

Stan stared forward. He was sure that the judges had been told about his actions last episode. He'd commit the crime and now could only await punishment. His face remained impassive, but Andy saw the broad shoulders constantly braced for impact.

"And Aga," Venus pulled at the table cloth as she spoke. "Some of us loved your cookies. But others felt this was too easy, too safe, and too similar to your other dishes. At this point in the competition, we need more."

"No!" Grigor pushed his way up to the judges' table before Andy and Domi could get their hands on him.

"It was perfect. I ate it in one bite." His eyes narrowed into angry slits. "You had, like, three! What is happening?! How can you call this fair!"

A safety belt pulled him back, an arm around his waist, a familiar voice buzzing in his ear.

"Hey hey hey, shhhh," Andy pulled him back into line with Domi. "You're going to get yourself dragged off by security. Calm down."

Grigor wriggled under Andy's grip, finally relaxing with a huff. The judges glanced at each other. The intensity of Grigor's outburst rattled the room.

"Dimitrov," Maria's voice echoed through the sound stage. "Come with me."

"No." He was petulant, nostrils flaring. Andy hated himself for being desperately attracted to it. "No no no, I'm fine." He stood straight like a toy soldier determined not to break ranks.

"Too bad." She pointed at him and walked towards the confessional booth. Grigor turned to Andy with a sudden urgency.

"I'm not leaving. You know that."

"I know. Just go apologize."

Grigor looked over towards Aga and the bottom chefs. "Just," he inhaled deeply to try and calm himself. "Just keep her here. Please."

"Ok," Andy squeezed his shoulder. "I promise."

The judges waited for Grigor and Maria to disappear into the tent before continuing. Lendl stood to address the chefs.

"That's passion. That's love. And I'm excited to that I will be cooking a private dinner for today's winner, to share my passion for food with you."

A detached applause escaped from the remaining chefs who hadn't made the top three. Domi squealed, clapping and jumping up and down. Andy barely processed his emotional whiplash, his concern for Aga and Grigor suddenly washed away by a tidal wave of excitement. A personalized meal cooked by Ivan fucking Lendl - a silent influence throughout his entire career - wasn't something Andy had even dared to hope for. While Domi sprung into the air, Andy could only clap with a dumbfounded expression that slowly gave way to manic excitement and red beaten palms.

Venus looked between the two chefs, thrilled to see they were both excited about a prize that offered something fare more than money and cars.

"Andy," her smirk stretched into a grin. "You made the judges' favorite dish, and you are the winner of today's challenge. Congratulations. That means you've also won a dinner cooked exclusively for you and one guest by the iconic Ivan Lendl. Do you know who'll be joining you tonight?"

Her voice asked the question, but her grin said she already knew the answer. Andy fought his red cheeks and nodded. "I've got a pretty short list."

"But, of course, that means someone has to go home today." Venus pivoted towards the bottom contestants. Caroline, Stan, and Aga instinctively huddled together. Caroline tucked her chin to her chest while Stan stared forward, his face blank, his mind still geared for some sort of cruel reveal. Aga's gaze bore into Venus, delicate hands balled up into steel fists.

"Agnieska," Venus shook her head as she said it. "I'm sorry. Please pack your knives and go."

-

It took longer than he'd admit to pick an appropriate outfit, but ultimately Grigor decided to forgo the shirt and tie. He pulled on a crisp white t-shirt and then slid a black blazer over his shoulders. The fit was perfect, the look was just casual enough, and his mood had turned around as much as possible. He suffered a moment of devastation when Maria suggested he write Aga and he realized he'd never known her last name. But he took his head from his hands and trudged forward, completing his interview and grateful not to be kicked off the show over his surge of emotion. He had to pick his battles. And winning challenges would be his best revenge.

By the time he made it back to his room, the evening camera crew was already waiting, urging him to hurry up and get dressed for a dinner he didn't know he was having. He took his time showering and picking out his clothes despite the agitated crew that was eager to finally record a plot point they'd penciled in weeks ago.

Not that this was a date. Was it? It was a dinner. A private dinner. A private dinner with Andy. A private dinner with Andy that was cooked by his boyhood idol, whose name caused Andy to keel over mid-challenge. Grigor checked his reflection in the mirror. Maybe he should wear a tie?

The cameramen didn't give him time to quadruple guess himself. Juan placed a hand on each of his shoulders and pushed Grigor towards the door with rigid steps. A short, quiet, car ride later, Grigor found himself sitting in a small restaurant. A single rose in an empty wine bottle, a classic red and white checked cloth thrown over the small table. He grabbed a votive and tipped it sideways, watching intently as molten wax dripped onto the cloth.

"That tablecloth was made by my mother." Grigor jumped at the sound of Lendl's voice. He put the candle down quickly and rubbed his fingers together to peel off the wax.

"I'm - I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking."

Lendl laughed. "My mother couldn't make a washcloth if her life depended on it, those tablecloths are from Sam's Club."

Grigor blinked, a half hearted laugh escaping him. "Right. Still. Sorry."

"You're nervous." The warmth was obvious in Lendl's voice. "Don't be! Tonight is going to be a celebration. Right?"

He reached down and shook Grigor vigorously until a genuine laugh rumbled out of the Bulgarian.

"See? We're going to have fun. I'm going to start the appetizers, but first - this is for you."

He pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Grigor before turning and walking back into the kitchen. Grigor turned the envelope around in his hand repeatedly, searching for a label or any indication of who had sent it. He slid a finger under the corner and tore it open slowly, pulling out a soft piece of stationary. Only a few words were written on it.

_I was told to decide what I want. I can tell you without hesitation, that I want dinner. I want dates. I want you. I want to try. So I owe you one dinner, but I promise many more. And after tonight, you'll see I always make good on my promises._

Grigor looked around the restaurant, confused and unsure of what to do. Was he supposed to eat dinner alone, stood up on what would have been a first date?

"I'm sorry I'm late," her voice was soft, but excited. Aga poked her head through the front door, a soft bell chiming as she opened it. She walked to the table, dark hair falling over her shoulders, her small frame wrapped in a red dress, a dusting of gold on her cheeks.

He was on his feet, arms crushing her against his chest before she could react. "What are you doing here?!" She buried her head against his chest for a brief moment.

"Oh misiu, can't you see?" Aga broke their hug and looked up at Grigor. "He told me earlier. It's romantic and messy and so obvious. Passion has broken out of it's little white cups."


	6. Episode Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chefs take a trip to the coast. Lobster rolls, fish fly. Andy cools things down.

Nick wiped a blade with a cloth and slotted it back into the wooden block.

"So, the win streak is finally over. Getting nervous?"

Andy fished a gnat out of his wine glass and flicked it away. 

"Not really. I can't say it's killing me to be out of the top three. That was a damn good scallop crudo. There were just three better dishes."

Caroline set down a sparkling dish and threw a hand towel to Nick. "Shouldn't you be the nervous one? You're on the chopping block, too."

"Are you going to miss me if I go, Sheila?" He grinned and threw the towel back at her. 

"You're like a phantom limb. I won't miss you and I hope I don't wake up itchy." She dropped the towel on the floor and stalked away through swinging doors. 

"She's totally going to miss me." Nick snatched up the towel and followed her out of the kitchen.

The remaining chefs wandered around the foreign kitchen, rinsing off their knives, stacking dishes near the washing station, anything to pass the time as the judges finished deliberation. Only a few hours earlier they'd been plucked from their warm beds and driven out to the coast to compete in challenges under the watchful eye of seafood impresario Hugh Acheson. Domi won a lobster-roll themed Quick Fire and the immunity that came with it. Minutes later they were back in the kitchen for the main challenge. 

He refused to admit it in the confessional booth, but Andy struggled to concentrate on the tasks in front of him. After sacrificing a dinner with his culinary idol, he still hadn't had a chance to discuss what comes next with Grigor. Their attraction was palpable, and Andy finally allowed himself to feel it, to revel in it, but the two had yet to take another step forward.

Over and over, producers thrust Grigor into Andy's lap. The bunk beds in the champagne room had been swapped out for an impossibly large bed with a heavy oak headboard and no subtlety about how it should be used. More than once, Juan had pulled Andy into a confessional booth to let him know the room was unoccupied if he wanted to sneak away for the evening. This morning's drive to the coast had seen each of the contestants assigned to specific cars - sponsored by Nissan - on the way to their Quick Fire and main challenge. Andy and Grigor were practically sequestered, assigned to their own private Maxima while the other six chefs split two vehicles. They made their way out of the penthouse silently, both Andy and Grigor reaching for the handle of the driver's side door.

"I'm driving." Grigor was too sleepy for please and thank you. 

"Like hell you are, boyo. You can't open both your eyes at once."

"Juan! Coffee!" Grigor looked around the parking lot. Andy was stunned to see multiple producers exit a camera van with their arms full of coffee. The men each grabbed a cup and stood impassively until the producers disappeared back into a van. 

"C'mon." Grigor nudged Andy's shoulder with his free hand. "We're in a fishbowl. Why have producers if we don't get to use them sometimes?" He shook his coffee cup. "This is their job."

"Yeah, that and trying to record a torrid shag." It came out of Andy before he'd fully thought it through.

"Oh." Grigor looked down at the gravel, cheeks red. "I guess. Yeah that's probably -. Right." He ducked into the car, quietly claiming the driver's seat. Andy walked around to the passenger seat, briefly wishing he could get run over instead of sharing an intimate ride along the coast with the man he'd just implied was being forced upon him.

They drove in silence for nearly an hour. Grigor sucked down a grande coffee with ease and his smooth driving allowed Andy to simply peer out the window as the city scenery was replaced by coastal views. Even in their silence, the comfort was innate but the tension was overwhelming. Everything was content and everything was unresolved. Through Grigor's dinner with Aga, Andy managed to say everything he needed to say. They were, for all intents and purposes, now Grigor and Andy. But there was still no Grigor and Andy. That friction played itself out wordlessly, over and over. Ebbing as Andy's hand found a comfortable place on Grigor's knee, ratcheting up as a bump in the road forced his hand further along Grigor's thigh, neither of them knowing quite how to react beyond holding their breath and waiting for the other to crack first.

"Are you too warm?" Grigor leaned forward to adjust the vents, his slight movement forcing Andy's hand to the seam of his shorts.

Andy took a sharp inhale and tried not to react, leaving his hand still, dangerously high along Grigor's leg. "I'm fine. Thanks."

Grigor leaned back, resisting the urge to shake Andy's hand away. He gripped the steering wheel and pretended to keep his eyes on the road, felt his chest rise and fall, controlling his breathes to avoid the distraction creeping up his shorts.

Andy looked out the window to his right, gliding his hand up until it disappeared into Grigor's shorts. He stared at the ocean out his window and tried not to smile at the small yelp that escaped his driver as his fingers slid under a pair of briefs.

Grigor leaned his shoulders back into the seat, forcing his hips forward in the seat. He took in a jagged breath as Andy's fingers wrapped around him. 

"Do you know where we're going?" Andy turned in his seat to face Grigor, his hand stroking to the hem of Grigor's shorts then disappearing back inside.

"Yeah, I -ooh" he clutched the wheel, knuckles turning white. "Just, um, just like that. We'll get there real quick."

Andy's grin could only be described as filthy. His hand was suddenly slick and he couldn't resist the urge to stroke again and again. Grigor stared out the windshield with a focus bordering on desperation. Andy struggled to keep from pressing his lips against the tense and delighted expression on Grigor's face. 

"Real quick?" Andy pumped his hand slowly, his palm dragging across every inch of Grigor, causing the younger man to practically jump out of his seat. "We'll see about that."

He checked the camera mounted to the ceiling in the backseat, confident it couldn't capture the sight of his hand reaching over the gear shift and slithering up the leg of Grigor's shorts. The tightness in his own jeans was nearly overwhelming but he was too focused on the sound of Grigor's constrained whimpers and the feeling of a man attempting to wriggle deeper into his fist.

"No, really." Grigor said between heaving breaths. "We're here." He brought the car to a fast stop behind the vehicles of the other chefs. 

"Fuck!" He honked the horn in frustration, still leaking over Andy's knuckles.

The abrupt horn blast turned the heads of the other contestants. Grigor and Andy bolted upright, sitting primly and waving at the others.

Andy retracted his hand and wiped his fingers along his jeans. 

"I'll... owe you one?"

Grigor tried to adjust himself. "If I stand up right now I'll gore a cameraman."

Andy released a guilty laugh. "Sorry. I got carried away. I just... We need to get away from these bloody cameras." He pointed to the camera behind them.

"Shit. Right. I hadn't even thought of that." Grigor looked down, relieved there was no telltale spot in his shorts. The other chefs still looked at them vacantly, waiting for the two to step out of the car. "Maybe in our cabin?"

Andy nodded. "Exactly. Our cabin. They've already paired us up. There's already a galaxy of cameras hidden in there, I'm sure of it."

Grigor pulled the keys from the ignition and jammed them into his pocket. "Yeah. So what?"

Andy met his gaze and waited for a joke, or a smile, or something to mock. Instead, he was met by a hungry and sincere gaze.

"So what?" Andy repeated it back. So what? The producers had been expecting this, but he hadn't. They were trying to capture his life. He was the one busy living it.

He was leaning over the seat without realizing it. One hand lost in Grigor's hair, lips hot and soft and wrapped around each other. The sharp sensation of Grigor's teeth nipping at his bottom lip. He resisted the urge to slide his hands back up the thigh he'd tortured earlier. They pulled apart, a strong hand against his chest, gasping for air. Grigor's smile unfurled, dazed and excited and satisfied.

A loud yell echoed from outside. Novak jumped onto the hood of the car, a singular whoop escaping him as he banged a fist against the windshield. 

"YEAH! It's about time!" 

-

The Nautica, Hugh Acheson's second restaurant, had quickly become a cultural lighthouse. It also quickly eclipsed a similar restaurant Tom had opened months earlier. A beacon of the culinary world, The Nautica was known primarily for it's back to basics style of seafood. Both old school and elegant in it's simplicity, like Katherine Hepburn eating Humphrey Bogart with a golden spoon and checkered bib. 

The chefs had survived the Quick Fire, making lobster rolls for a small crowd in a matter of minutes. Domi easily won with a lobster roll accented by a Mediterranean spice rub: cumin, coriander, cinnamon, and nutmeg joyously clashing against claw meat like a wave on jagged rocks. 

Andy's offering, a classic buttery roll stuffed with lobster, chives, and Old Bay, left the judges wanting something more.

Tom, in particular, felt disappointed by the dish. He walked away from Andy's table and whispered to Hugh.

"That was... not special. He can do better."

Hugh nodded, assessing the entire room. "Can you do better?"

Tom wagged a finger. "That's a challenge, my friend. Them's fightin' words."

"Oh buddy, I wouldn't win a fight with you." He patted Tom on the stomach. "Out run you, sure. But I wouldn't win a battle of the brawn."

Novak met them near his table with a platter of lobster on thin slices of bread. They plucked pieces of lobster bruschetta off the plate.

"This," Tom said with his mouth full, pointing to his own bulging cheeks. "This I like. He's a solid chef week in and out."

"Really?" Hugh's voice was high pitched. "Are you tasting bruschetta? Because all I'm tasting is bruschetta with lobster on top. 'In cima', if you will." 

"I won't. You have to be kidding." Tom chewed in mild awe. "The acid and the butter and the protein and the - god, that's gotta be sourdough. That's more than just bruschetta with lobster." 

"It's bruschetta," Hugh said. "Some spice, some tomato. Homeboy jammed some lobster on there, cut up a loaf of bread, and called it a dish. Meh."

-

"Domi. Congratulations, you are the winner of today's Quick Fire. Which means, you've also won immunity for today's main challenge as well as a Scandinavian vacation for two, courtesy of Borg Boats & Cruises."

Domi clapped as Venus announced her winning. She pulled Andy aside as soon as possible, happy for her win and to get a moment alone with her friend.

"Hey," she jabbed at his ribs. "A bird told me today's challenge is teams. A dish each, one by land and one by sea. I do tenderloin, you do some fish. We're in this together, yeah?"

"I think you mean, 'a little birdie told me'. You and boyo over there gnash phrases like they're your own teeth." 

His smile was met with Domi's deadpan expression. "Right. Sorry my Britishisms aren't proper gubernatorial, Captain."

"Alright, well that's not even close to a phrase."

"Look," she grabbed his hand, entirely unaware of the shorts it had ventured into earlier. "Are we a team?"

Andy wanted desperately to say no. To say he would dance with the boy who brought him. But Domi had gone out of her way to be his first friend in this competition, and her immunity meant she'd be willing to go big for the win. More importantly, she posed no threat to Andy's dwindling concentration. 

"Ok." He conceded. "But you probably want to wash your hands before you cook anything." 

She dropped his hand instantly, eyes rolling to the back of her head. 

"Ugh. Boys."

-

Grigor couldn't even fake being angry. He tried, grabbing Andy's coat by the lapels and pulling him close.

"What do you mean you're with her?" His smile gave him away immediately.

"I mean, I'm with Domi for this challenge. And for sexy time." 

Grigor nipped at his ear lobe and Andy clutched his shoulders, their bodies pressed together.

"I don't believe you," Grigor whispered, trying not to laugh in Andy's ear too loudly or press against his leg too overtly.

"Ummhmm. You're on to me." Andy nuzzled against him and was rewarded with warm breath on his neck. 

"Hey!" Genie clanged oversized tongs beside their ears. "Hands off my partner!"

They untangled, lust hanging between them like glue in thick invisible strings. Andy's agreement to partner with Domi may have been the only thing keeping them from abandoning the kitchen for a searing ten minutes back in the car.

He held a hand up in apology. "We're fine. Didn't mean to distract your partner. Sorry, er... friend."

Andy bit his tongue and turned around quickly. Not quick enough.

"Sorry, who?" Genie was behind him, tongs clanking with annoyance.

Andy whirled through a Rolodex in his mind. All the judges, producers, contestants, bill collectors, Food & Wine writers, and critics a stew in his mind. Roger. Grigor. Domi. Stan. Maria. Grigor.

"I'm sorry..." he said, hoping the name would come to him. "Oh God. I'm so sorry."

"You don't remember my name. After four weeks in the same fucking house?" Her tongs were dangerously close to his face.

"Virginia?"

"Genie." Her eye twitched.

"A royal. I was close." Andy looked around the room for support, all of the other chefs stared at pots on the stove.

"Alright, look. Genie. I'm sorry I forgot your name. You are just, like, the opposite of a priority for me right now."

To her credit, Genie didn't actually slap Andy with her metal tongs. Instead, she threw them on the floor, grabbed the halibut he had skinned, opened the door of a walk in refrigerator, and hurled the slab of fish against a wall with all her might. The GIF became a weird cult phenomenon: a one act ballet of a gorgeous blonde grabbing pounds of uncooked fish by the tail and whipping it against a wall of frozen food.

-

Hugh Acheson, it turns out, once had eyes for Venus. They'd met at the US Open one year, a few too many gin and tonics into his night. He was taken aback by her deep passion for cooking and knowledge of the culinary world. She was charmed, apparently, by his defiant unibrow and how boldly he spoke to her despite knowing exactly who she was. 

At some point, months later, he'd failed to return a call and lost her before he knew he had her. But their time together introduced Venus to a new circle of friends that eventually led her to Tom Colicchio. They'd first met at a mutual friend's wedding outside of Venice, which soon became a whirlwind week in Croatia. They'd been inseparable since. They learned to down play their relationship for the sake of the show, but here, along the coast in his own beloved seafood outpost, it was clear to Hugh that he'd lost out to Tom yet again.

Tom caught his eyes lingering at the Judges' Table.

"Hugh! Who do you want to send home?"

"Aside from you?"

"Yes," Tom smiled, entirely aware of Hugh's irritation. "Can't get rid of me, buddy."

"Tragic, really." Hugh pushed an empty plate away. "I'm not sure. I'm comfortable saying Stan was the best of the night. His partner, Nick, was a disappointment, though."

"Agreed." Venus refused to acknowledge whatever rivalry existed in the room. "Stan's sea bass was, by far, the stand out. Domi's tenderloin was well cooked but safe. But I have to say, I'm disappointed in Andy today. He seemed distracted."

"Sure," Hugh said. "He wasn't the winner, but he wasn't bad. I think you guys spend so much time with these contestants you get turned around. Nothing Andy did was disappointing."

"I'd have to disagree," Eva said. "I was underwhelmed by Andy today. Have we seen all he has to do?"

"You're crazy. All of you," Hugh said. "You just don't know what you've got in front of you." He gazed at Venus, who busied herself with a napkin. 

"Ok, well, who do you think should go home?"

Hugh leaned towards her. "Let's look at it this way, who isn't good enough to win the competition - based on this dish alone? I'd say Andy can still make it to the winner's circle. Novak, Caroline, Nick. Not so sure."

"I like Novak. His dish was fine today." Tom leaned on his elbow to stare at Hugh. 

"Exactly, you _like_ Novak. If this was a competition for Top Likable Guy, he'd have locked it up in the first challenge."

Venus wrung her napkin with both hands. "Novak's dish wasn't that bad."

"So?!" Hugh threw his hands up. "Was anyone's dish bad? You four judge this competition so often you get confused about what constitutes bad food. You like Novak, not his food."

Tom sucked ice water through gritted teeth. He had won the attention of Venus, he could see Hugh had picked the next battle to win. 

"Come on, Hugh. This is ridiculous! You've set your cross hairs on the man because I said I liked him. His dish was fine."

Hugh's lips curled into a knowing smile. "Liking someone hasn't stopped either of us before, Tommy. And we both know Novak doesn't have what it takes to win this competition."

-

"Ok, I got one," Stan said to the small circle of chefs. "You age with half the speed of normal person, so double lifespan, but you must be celibate your entire life. Do you live longer?"

"No!" It erupted out of Genie and Grigor without a second thought. 

Genie laughed into her wine glass. "I'd rather die. Seriously." 

Domi couldn't answer quite as fast. "So, can you still fall in love and get married and everything?"

Stan shrugged. "Sure, if that's your thing."

"Then I'd live longer! I'd be in love longer."

"Oh come one," Genie said. "You're not going to fall in love with someone you can never sleep with."

"Speak for yourself!" Andy interrupted. "I've loved Indiana Jones since I was 8 and he's not even real."

"That's not the same," Grigor said. "You can't have sex with a fictional character. Or... I hope you can't, at least."

Stan pointed at Andy. "You don't love Indiana Jones. You love the idea of adventure. That's infatuation. Infatuation doesn't last once you get to know them." The darkness in his eyes said he wasn't merely discussing cartoons.

"I'm getting another drink." Stan stood and wandered out of the kitchen. Domi's gaze followed his path out.

"Poor guy. I think he really misses Roger."

Andy scoffed. "I think he really misses Merlot."

"Be nice! It can't be easy for him, especially with you two all... leg touchy."

Andy and Grigor jerked their legs away, never noticing they'd begun to brush up against each other while sitting in the tight circle. 

Domi laughed and scrambled to her feet. "I'm going to make sure he's ok and see what the others are all up to."

"Oh!" Genie pulled herself up. "And see if Juan is with them. I'd age twice as fast if that camera guy..." she pumped her fist in the air. Domi pulled an empty wine glass from Genie's hand and set it on the counter top. 

"No more for you."

They were hardly out the door before Grigor's leg had found Andy's again. Andy rested his hand on a familiar spot along Grigor's thigh.

"And then there were two." His fingers walked themselves higher. He licked his lips at the sight of Grigor already straining against his shorts.

They were on top of each other in a second, on their feet as Andy's back crashed against a table and Grigor's shoulder bounced off a cabinet. They fought for balance and tussled for space, tongues grappling and bodies desperate to press against each other harder. Grigor's lips tasted of mint and he loved knowing that Andy had been thinking about nothing but him since this morning.

Andy fought to pull away from his lips, a thumb tracing the shape of his cheekbone. "I couldn't - my God - trying to cook with you standing there looking just - so." Their lips met before he could turn the idea into words. Lingering thoughts evaporated as his hands found strong shoulders, ran down a cotton shirt, and suddenly slipped down the back of a waistband without his conscious knowledge. The vibrations of Grigor's soft groan were swallowed by Andy's lips.

"Wait. Hey -" Grigor backed himself against the refrigerator they'd landed on, his chest swelling and falling. "This isn't exactly a private kitchen." His cheeks had taken on a dark hue and the sound of his barely controlled panting made Andy's heart pump fast.

"Right." Andy nodded. He tried to clear his head as his eyes swept the room. He kept returning to the sight of Grigor leaning against the refrigerator door and biting his lower lip.

"Here," he reached behind Grigor and yanked open the door to the walk in refrigerator. 

Grigor's eyes widened. "Genius!"

Andy pulled the heavy door open and followed Grigor's laugh inside. They found themselves on the floor, bodies overlapping and nervous hands bumping into each other in an ecstatic rush. Pans and chafers clattered with every movement of Andy's shoulder, the air thick with the smell of prepped ceviche and chopped onion and a gossamer of lust that blocked out all these distractions. 

"Your body is unbelievable." Andy hadn't noticed his shirt was off until Grigor bit at his collar bone, the cool concrete floor on his back a contrast to Grigor's hot flesh against him.

They fumbled together, vision blurred by a rush of blood and hands that acted on their own. He had two handfuls of cheek, a mouthful of tongue, when he felt an electric touch and the air was torn from his lungs. 

Grigor laughed, his hand wrapped around Andy, thumb and forefinger barely able to touch. "Whew. Who knew?" 

The vibrations of his laugh traveled through his arms and up Andy's swollen shaft. He looked down at Grigor's impossibly handsome face, the sight of his hands gripping Andy's cock and the smile on his face nearly too much. He curled his toes and looked up at the ceiling.

"Oh no, sir." Grigor kissed his way up Andy's torso, his right hand tracing up a bulging vein along Andy's thick shaft. "This isn't the time to lay back and think of England."

"I'm Scottish." It came out as a growl. They wrestled on the frozen floor, eager to discover and taste and tease every part of each other. They rolled against a wall, Andy using one hand to distractedly push Genie's catapulted halibut away from their bodies.

He loved the slickness in his hand, the thrill of knowing Grigor was suddenly on the brink purely from their spark and friction. He couldn't stop himself, instinctively rising on one elbow and planting his lips against Grigor's. Hard. His tongue greeted by parted lips before a moan vibrated against his own.

Andy urged him on, a wicked twist of his hand and probing tongue coaxing the younger man into giving in. Grigor pulled a handful of hair his body shook. He erupted in Andy's hand, hot and thick, teeth biting against Andy's lips. The victory was all Andy could take before he found himself on his back, hips lifted off the floor, a primal groan rumbling through him as he pumped into a barely closed fist.

He was torn between the immediate present and some place entirely of it's own. Between the sizzling skin against his own, the warm liquid between their chests, and the cold room around them. Half aware of reality outside, unable to focus on anything beyond the slowly steadying rhythm of Grigor's breaths. 

Andy's hands stroked his bare back, luxuriating in the feeling of his smooth skin and already igniting a small spark to explore more. He thought of the swordfish he'd cooked as a kid. About how he never asked where it came from. It had just appeared, so he cooked it. He thought about the way Grigor's hands felt in his hair, nerve endings humming with every swirl of his fingertips. Andy tried not to look directly at him, aware his soft eyes and satiated grin would end a resistance that had already silently fallen.

Andy felt Grigor's body shudder alongside his own. He craned his neck downward to meet blue lips and a shivering jaw. 

"Ok, it got cold." 

"Yeah," Andy came back to reality. "We are in a refrigerator. We should-"

"Guys, the judges are ready- oh my eyes!"

Andy laid back on the cold cement, Grigor didn't bother rolling over at the sound of Genie's voice. They'd been utterly, entirely, thoroughly caught.

They heard the door swing open again, Novak joining Genie in excitement.

"Oh, Grandy! Or Andgor? We haven't picked a name for you yet. But, um, get it together."

Neither members of Grandy bothered to turn at the sound of Novak's voice. He and Genie had clearly come to fetch them to face the judges, and they knew the rest of the cast - and the producers - would know instantly. They waited for the refrigerator door to shut and broke in to embarrassed giggles.

"Busted," Grigor managed to say between laughs. He reluctantly rolled off Andy and searched for his clothes, his short hair somehow tussled. Andy couldn't help but stare as he leaned over to pick up his t-shirt. 

"Hey!" Grigor turned to catch his eyes. "Not fair. It is unnaturally cold in here."

"From behind, that's really not a problem." Andy rubbed his hands together for a moment before reaching for the pants pooled around his ankles. He tried to resist laughing at the ridiculous situation. "Ok, maybe not the most dignified start to this."

"Seriously?" Grigor dropped to his knees to press his lips against Andy's. "This was- you were." He pulled his shirt back over his head. "Satisfying."

Andy shivered and shook his head. "I want more."

"That thing will break my fucking jaw," Grigor said with a laugh.

"We'll work up to it," Andy said, shades of red creeping into his cheeks.

"Seriously, guys," Novak's voice pierced their refrigerated paradise. "The judges are waiting for you. And it smells real... obvious, in here." 

Andy let himself sink further into the ground. 

"Got it, Nole! Thank you."

Andy stood to look for his shirt. Grigor scooped up a pair of shorts, finding his camera still wedged inside a pocket. He snapped a quick shot of Andy, round cheeks on the verge of disappearing into his pants, back muscles flexed.

"Hey!" Andy whirled around, red hairs disappearing behind his unzipped fly. "No no no."

Grigor snapped another, Andy's broad palm blocking half the lens, his bare chest and sharp teeth and distrusting expression barely peaking out of the top of the photo.

"This one is a winner," Grigor said with a smile. 

"Any chance you'll delete it for me?" Andy knew the answer before finishing the question.

"No, but you've got a little -" Grigor motioned to his own stomach, "a, ahh, little teamwork, there, to take care of."

"Yeah, well you've got a little no pants to take care of." Andy grinned and took in the sight in front of him. 

"One problem at a time." Grigor gripped his phone with his teeth and hopped back into his shorts. "See?"

-

Maria pointed to the camera as the spot light came on, nearly blinding Andy.

"You know the drill. Look at the camera, not at me."

"I bloody can't look at anything. Christ!"

"You're fine. Ok. Grigor. Tell me about the mood in the kitchen right now."

Grigor wriggled in the seat next to Andy, his eyes slowly adjusting to the light that blocked out everyone else in the confessional booth.

"The mood? I mean, everyone's bummed to lose Novak. He was kind of the heart of team, but," he couldn't help but smile when he felt Andy's hand slip into his own, "uhh, but everyone is also in pretty high spirits."

"And why is that?" Maria kept her voice flat.

"That is," Andy's hand was suddenly up the back of his shirt. The two burst into laughter. Grigor looked away from the camera and chewed his bottom lip. Maria realized she'd never seen Andy laugh before, shoulders shaking and teeth sharp.

"Ok!" Grigor recovered. "Look, we lost Novak. I'm gutted. But even he was pretty excited when he left."

Maria tapped her foot. "Because?"

"Don't make us say it," Andy was still struggling to keep from laughing. "We're ah.. there was.. snogging." 

Grigor covered his face with his hands. "It's nothing! Ok it's something."

"You're really something," Andy gave Grigor a sarcastic thumbs up.

"Ok, well if it's nothing." Maria rolled her eyes. "Then tell me about the refrigerator."

The howls of laughter could be heard outside of the confessional booth the producers had constructed in the back of The Nautica's stock room. Andy hid his face behind Grigor's shoulder while the younger man used his sleeve to dry his eyes. They attempted to pull themselves together, Andy sat up properly and Grigor smoothed out his shirt.

"The refrigerator," Andy could feel it building in his chest. "... Refrigerator." He fought the smile, his muscles too strong to suppress it. He knew he had to stare forward, a sideways glance at Grigor and he'd be in stitches.

"... The refrigerator... it was just some fun." He elbowed Grigor's side. "Right?"

"Yea-huh." His slight giggle was already giving way. He cleared his throat. "Some fun. I would say loads." 

The interview that made it onto the actual television episode was simply 30 seconds of Andy and Grigor in hysterics, gasping for air and pawing at each other's shoulders. Grigor's follower count practically doubled over night.


	7. Episode Five - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The knives come out. Andy becomes amphibious.

To Grigor's shock, Andy was a nester. It took less than 24 hours for their cabin to look like it'd been lived in for years. Shorts thrown on top of dressers instead of in them, books he'd never attempt to read stacked on the table, a small army of half-full water glasses standing guard on their bedside stand. Equipped with two beds, they found the cabin to be over supplied and Andy quickly made use of the spare bed by laying all of his clothes out in piles.

"You know, you could hang it up. Just like this." Grigor made a sweeping gesture to the closet, his starched shirts hanging in a row. "And look - look look look," he grinned and peeled his t-shirt off over his head. "There are even more hangars so you can just put them up like this." He hung the t-shirt up and looked at it with astonishment.

"Yeah, but if you hang all those up you're just going to have to wash and fold them up later. This," Andy nodded towards his messy pile of shirts on the bed, "is much more efficient. Those hangars are irresponsible, really."

Andy had him by the wrist and wrestled Grigor onto their bed before he could finish his eye roll. Andy pushed him onto his back and climbed on top of Grigor.

"I don't think you want to pick on me, boyo." He nipped as his neck, teeth sharp and playful. "I can make life real rough on you."

Grigor took in a sharp breath. "You promise?"

"Mmhmm." Grigor felt the buzz of Andy's hum in his ear, his lips hovering dangerously close. The weight of Andy's body slowly lowered on to Grigor's bare chest.

The electronic whirl echoing from the corner of the room prompted Andy to lift his body off Grigor's. There, near the roof of their tiny cabin, a small round camera lens expanded and contracted, zooming in on their bed. Andy had tried to hang a shirt over the tiny lens on their first night but the mount in the corner was too tight to squeeze fabric over it.

Andy rolled over with a huff. "Right. Blue balled by Big Brother."

Grigor shot upright in bed. "Your brother is a here?!"

Andy pretended to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand in an attempt to stifle his laughter. "No, babe, Jamie isn't here. Big Brother is a character from the book."

A sheepish smile crept across Grigor's face as he laid back down, arms stretching out and hands reaching under pillows. 

"Good. I don't think I can handle more than one Murray at a time right now. Plus, I-," he pulled his hand out from under the pillow and stared. "Are these glasses?! Do you wear glasses?"

"No!" Andy leaned on an elbow and snatched the glasses out of Grigor's hands. "They're just for reading!"

"Which would make them reading glasses. So - yes, those are glasses. You wear glasses." Grigor laughed as Andy jammed the glasses back under a pillow. 

"Put 'em on, put 'em on, put 'em on!" He poked at Andy repeatedly, fingers eager to explore.

"Alright! Christ, stop it." Andy sat up and slid on the glasses, waiting for a laugh. Grigor studied his face, pretending he was studying a bust in a Parisian gallery.

He fished his phone out of a pocket and wriggled in bed until his back was against Andy's chest. He held the phone out with an extended arm and tapped the screen rapidly, his facial expression and the tilt of his head shifting with each click of his thumb.

Andy groaned. "I look like a cranky librarian."

"Oh that's a good Halloween idea, write that down." Grigor reviewed their shots and held his arm back out.

"Ok so there's an actual science to this. First, the light needs to be behind you. Most people think it needs to be in front, those are ugly people."

"Hey! Be nice." Andy hated to laugh at Grigor's jokes but the shaking of his chest against Grigor's back gave him away. He slapped his arm as a fake admonishment.

"Never! Ok, so you put the light directly behind you, so you look all luminous. See? Move to your left. There! Don't move. Ok perfect. Now you need to squint your eyes a little bit."

Andy glared at the camera.

"Too much! Less angry eyes and more... squint? Just do it. Now exhale through your mouth."

"This is fucking ridiculous."

"Your talking isn't helping your squinting!" Grigor fought off a smile long enough to reel off a string of shots. He held his phone up to Andy's face.

"Dammit, I look good." Andy pushed the phone away. "You got lucky."

"Like hell I did!" Grigor held the phone back out. "Ok now look at the camera. Lean over a bit. Further. Further." Andy leaned over Grigor's shoulder, his entire body over the half naked frame below him. "Ok a little further. Perfect. Now kiss me."

Grigor looked up with a grin, Andy met his lips before he had time to gloat. The phone was quickly lost in the sheets as they rolled around the bed, Grigor's leg tangled around Andy's waist, his shirt was quickly discarded in the pile on the bed. 

Grigor's hand deftly undid the top button of Andy's pants before they heard the knock on the door. He held himself up on his elbows, body hovering above Andy's, the sharp angles of his furrowed brow hanging over reddened cheeks.

"Oh for fuck's sake. Go away!" Andy tried to adjust himself quickly as the doorknob turned.

"Hey, guys!" Juan stuck his head through the door, knowing smile on his face. "I'm coming inside."

"Well, someone should." Andy sat up, suddenly realizing he'd lost his shirt. "Can I help you?"

Grigor laid back on the bed, fingers laced behind his head, his sense of modesty nonexistent in front of the cameraman who had clearly seen their earlier moments together.

Juan stared at the camera in the corner, nearly afraid to look Grigor in the eye. "Yes! Your scene just now, with the selfie and the kiss, was very romantic. We need you to do it again but facing towards that corner."

"You're fucking kidding me."

Juan shrugged. "I am not." 

Andy looked to the man beside him, still laying on the bed with his legs spread and hands in his hair. 

"Yeah, absolutely not." Grigor shook his head. "We're not trained seals. It was a moment. You ruined it. We were about to have another before you just came in like a fucking seven foot wrecking ball."

Andy's face masked his surprise at hearing Grigor speak so directly, notes of anger evident in his voice. The sweet and playful Grigor he was falling for didn't have that tone. Andy took a moment to be thankful he wasn't the first to provoke it. Even teddy bears, apparently, are still be bears.

Juan shrugged. "So... no?"

"Juan," Andy pleaded, "it's a no! Get out before he eats you."

The cameraman backed out of the cabin slowly, pulling the door tight. Grigor turned to Andy, suddenly giddy, one hand in his shorts.

"I sounded so boss."

"Like a boss."

"Don't correct your boss!" Grigor pulled at the still unbuttoned waist band of Andy's jeans. "Shower?" His gaze snaked down to his own shorts. "Boss says yes."

"Well if the boss says so..." Andy was on his feet and locking the bathroom door before a cameraman or producer could possibly stop them.

-

"Helloooo? Andy?!" Domi shouldered her way into the abandoned cabin. "Pinot Grigor? Anyone?"

"Hello?" Andy's voice rang out, muffled, blocked by the cherrywood bathroom door.

"Andy!"

"Domi?!" 

"Yeah!" She could hear him fumbling about in the bathroom. She stood outside the door and thumped her foot on the floor impatiently.

"Don't open the door!" Andy yelled from inside. She heard an unintelligible exchange and immediately realized what she'd walked in on.

"Hey! I'll come back and-. Hi." She struggled to keep her eyes from drifting down to the towel covering his lower half as Andy opened the bathroom door, water dripping from his jaw.

She cocked her head to the side to look past Andy. "Hi, pumpkin!"

"Hi, lady!" Grigor looked in the foggy mirror to see Domi peering at him behind Andy. He didn't bother to reach for a towel, instead examining the burgeoning five o'clock shadow threatening to overtake his chin. "Door, please."

Andy stepped forward and closed the door behind him.

"Hey, sorry, we were showering. Again."

"Mhmm," she handed him a shirt from the bed pile. "You're like the world's horniest raisins."

Andy inspected his pruned fingers with glee. "I'm going to tell my grandchildren legends of the things that happened in that shower."

"That's plenty information!" Domi ducked behind her own arm while Andy pulled on fresh clothes. "Once you've washed off the filth that is your life, the seven of us have an actual show we're on."

"Sure, sure." He sprayed the room with water as he shook the droplets loose from his hair. "Down to seven?"

"You, me, lover boy in there, Sweet Caroline, Nick, Stan, and your favorite person to remember - Genie."

"Ugh, is she still mad?"

"She will never not be mad." Domi punched him in the arm once, then five more times in rapid succession. "You're collecting enemies. Thank God you've got me."

"And me." Grigor swung the bathroom door open, a towel around his waist and another in a preposterously high wrap around his head. "You say my name enough, I'm pretty sure you remember it."

Domi collapsed into the bed and scrubbed the mental image from her mind. 

-

Tom smiled at the assembled contestants, familiar florescent lights buzzing inside the kitchen. He'd given them a speech about chance. About how the restaurant business itself was all about chance. About meeting the right investors, the right partners, hiring the right people. It was all - according to Tom - about chance.

He pulled out a knife block, seven black handles pointing outwards. 

"So," Tom's grin unfurled. "Today's dish will embrace chance. On the blade of each knife is a protein. Each chef will cook whichever protein chance decides."

Andy shot a sideways glance to Grigor, a silent vote of confidence that they'd each be able to survive the challenge. Stay focused, nail the protein, get back to the cabin in time for a third shower.

He gripped a handle and pulled the blade from the block. The steel glistened under the bright studio lights, the black matted letters standing out in relief.

SEA BASS. Not exactly his forte, but Andy could handle sea bass. Grigor pulled a blade from the block and turned it over in his hand.

"I got no beef with that!" He tried not to be too proud of his pun. Grigor held the BEEF blade up to the cameras, his smile dialed up so high it nearly drowned out the sound of Andy's groan.

Domi pulled her blade and looked to Tom in confusion. "Two beefs?"

"Oh!" Tom suddenly remembered, his smile less innocent than before. "I almost forgot. Chance means, of course, you never know who you'll be working with. You'll be working in teams to complete today's dish."

Andy's groan rang out again. The other chefs followed suit. 

"So we're partners!" Grigor and Domi hugged, knives flailing behind each of their backs. 

Nick hesitantly drew his knife. CHICKEN.

"Chicken." Genie read allowed. She nodded at Nick. "Ok. I can handle that."

"Sea bass." 

Andy didn't look up. He debated throwing his knife at Stan. Or breaking the tip and trying to convince the judges he'd been assigned to cook "ASS". He could feel Stan's eyes on him, the entire panel of chefs waiting for his reaction.

"Well," Andy spoke in an indecipherable deadpan. "Fuck me." 

"Thanks, Andy." Stan said, knuckles clenched around the handle of his knife.

Grigor tried not to laugh. Andy shrugged at him. "Sorry! I just... don't like you."

Nick and Genie burst out laughing. Caroline looked around nervously. Domi rolled her eyes as Grigor squeezed her hand. 

Stan was unimpressed. "I guess we have that in common. Partner."

Caroline grabbed a knife from the block quickly, willing the tension out of the room. She inspected it and turned to Nick and Genie with labored kindness. "Hooray team chicken! Gack! Gack! Gack!"

"What?" Genie stared as if Caroline had suggested they swallow their knives. "What is that?"

"Gack! German chickens gack. Like a cluck!" Caroline pecked at the air. Andy felt humiliated for her. "Never mind..."

Stan dragged himself towards Andy. "So. Your boyfriend is getting the beef. Jealous?" 

"He's not my-" Andy halted in the middle of his reflexive statement, refusing to take the bait. He ran a hand through his hair. 

"You know what, Stanny? We can pretend to be sea bass if you want. I'll take a swim and you go try to breathe under water for a few minutes."

Tom clapped his hands together, the chefs suddenly remembering the cameras were rolling and they were in the middle of a television show. Slowly but surely they'd learned to ignore the pressure of the cameras, the constant blinking red lights and producers recording their every movement. Until they were greeted by another challenge, and dismissed by another elimination.

"Chefs!" Tom clapped again. "In line with today's theme of chance, you'll only have one shot - one chance - at today's challenge. You'll be making one dish as a team. And I mean ONE dish. There will be no Quick Fire today. Which means as the winner of our last challenge; Stan, you'll have immunity for today's main challenge. The rest of you have 2 hours to prepare one team dish. Time starts - now!"

Domi pulled Grigor by the collar towards an open work station, yelling over her shoulder to Andy. "I'll take care of him, I promise!"

"Unless he's an actual sea bass I couldn't care less." Andy played nonchalant for the cameras, effectively fooling no one as he watched Domi and Grigor walk away.

-

A lifetime ago, not long before the glares of Maria and the cameras, Andy and Stan had something bordering on a friendship. Or at least they'd been casual acquaintances in their professional circles. It was Roger, Stan's sometimes boyfriend, that had really chafed Andy properly. 

Stan and Andy shared the ability to be affable and dour in the same sentence. They'd drunkenly sequestered themselves in the kitchen at dinner parties to critique the host's dirty wok or VitaMix more than once. Now, the two knocked around ideas for their dish and discussed flavor profiles like trusted confidants. Andy idly snapped uncooked pieces of spaghetti and felt his old memories of Stan seep in, recoloring the villainous image he'd drawn since the show started. 

Stan spoke in rapid fire excitement, dots of sweat already threatening to bead on his brow. "This will be perfect. I'll grill the bass, very light, some lime or something like that. You handle the risotto. DON'T over due it. It'll all-"

"Hey," Andy's confusion spilled into the conversation. "I know." He locked eyes with Stan. "I know."

Stan's eyes darted to where Andy's hand tapped the table, the letters "R F" spelled up with hard spaghetti and rigid angles. The Scot's gaze was still hard when Stan looked back to him.

Andy brought his finger to his lips. "We don't need to make this a big fight for the producers. I just... How could it get to that point?"

Stan's shock melted into rage, then quickly to something quieter, sadder.

"Noodles, yeah?" He held up one of the tiny spaghetti shards. "You can arrange them into letters and pictures. You can cook them. Turn them into great dish. But you can't, once it's broken, make it one whole noodle again. It's forever broken."

Andy took the spaghetti from Stan, their fingers brushing against each other. "Yeah?" 

"Yeah." Stan nodded, his eyes turned to the floor.

"I'm sorry."

"Thank you. I regret doing it, if that helps. But just a little." Stan ran his hand over the table, the "R F" swept into a pile and brushed onto the floor. It crunched under their feet as they began prepping ingredients, his first opportunity to be over it.

-

Domi threw her ponytail over one shoulder and weighed eggs in each hand. Grigor held his phone up and snapped a shot. She kissed an egg, smile threatening to crash through her puckered lips.

"It's a cute egg." She pressed her lips against it and left behind a small patch of red.

"You're a cute egg." Grigor inspected his phone. "You're - oh woah!" He dashed behind a table and croached low to the ground. Domi looked around to see if any cameras were on them and slowly croached beside him.

Grigor tried to hand over his phone nonchalantly. "I have wifi," he hissed.

"No!" She flipped his phone over and stared at the small sound wave near the top corner, one dot and two dark arcs. "Oh my god. Mail! I'm checking my mail!"

"Shhh!" Grigor stood up quickly and walked to the other side of the table, attempting to start their dish while Domi pecked her way through his phone. He took a slab of raw beef and slapped it on the grill top with flare, anything to draw the attention of the production crew away from Domi curled up below the table. 

"Oh, he grew out his beard!" Her excitement made the table shake. She poked the phone up above the table, a screenshot of a man with a short goatee greeting Grigor.

"Shhh. We're not supposed to have it. You're gonna get us kicked off!"

"Sorry," she whispered. "But it's a cute beard." She wiggled the phone again before pulling it back below the table. "OH! The puppy!"

Grigor kicked the table leg, rattling the sheet metal and quieting Domi. "No puppies! Beef and quiet!"

Grigor jumped as two hands slapped on his shoulders. 

"That sounds like a deaf porno." Nick squeezed at Grigor's tense muscles. "You're keyed up, mate. A little alarming. Smell great though." He stuck his nose in Grigor's hair.

"He showers three times a day!" Domi yelled from behind the table.

Grigor stepped out from Nick's nose. "Fresh too death."

"Fucked to death is more like it." Nick was proud of himself, the corner of his mouth hitched upwards.

"We actually haven't... yet. That." Grigor fought off the blush. "We're working up to-"

"Fucking." Nick made a crude jabbing motion in the air. "You're working up to fucking. Like a, uh, trust thing?"

Grigor rubbed the back of his neck, his cheeks suddenly hot. "No. We definitely - after the Lendl thing - trust.... It's a," he rolled his eyes, his teenage awkwardness invading his 20-something mouth. "It's a size thing, actually."

"Beard AND puppy!!!" Domi yelled from under the table. She stomped her feet in excitement. "It's too much, I can't!"

Nick looked under the table at Domi, then back at Grigor. "Size too big or size too small? You or him? Does that phone actually work? Oh man, can I just join your group? You're way more fun."

Grigor swallowed hard. "I... We need to get to work."

"Ahh puppy swimming! Dead! I died."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gang deserved a happy chapter (and an update in general) but no one can get too comfy. HUGE thanks for the kudos and fantastic comments


	8. Episode Five - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chefs start to see the finish line. The Stanimal cometh.

Unable to reach a true compromise, Genie, Caroline, and Nick decided to make chicken three ways and avoid touching each other's dish. Domi, absorbed in photos of her husband and updates from their life in Colorado, agreed to make a poached egg to accompany Grigor's steak for a steak and eggs benedict dish. Andy and Stan worked on the elements of their sea bass separately, often half a kitchen away from each other as they tracked down ingredients.

Stan wandered to Andy's station over and over, their new found friendship chilling with each paranoid glance over Andy's shoulder. Stan hovered behind him and silently assessed his progress, clearly not trusting the Scot to handle his simple risotto. He exaggerated his movements, pouring wine into a saucepan from a foot above the stove, stirring rice with both hands on a wooden spoon, making himself and his irritation with Stan larger. Andy made himself count to ten after Stan left, suddenly eager to repay the favor and stick his nose in his partner's dish.

Andy slid behind Stan to gawk at the simmering sea bass, resting his chin on Stan's shoulder before it was shaken off with an irritated grunt. Andy watched in horror as Stan pulled dark seared chunks of fish off the grill.

"Sweet baby Jesus what is this?! You said light!"

"It's round one, the fillet fell apart. It'll get better." Stan gripped the pan and flipped the fish into the trash.

"Like fun it will! You don't have time to do this over and over, we've got 45 minutes. Get it together, man."

"Hey," Stan whirled around, furious. "Back off. We're supposed to be partners."

"Yeah well considering what happened to Roger-" 

Andy chomped his mouth shut as Stan's brows knit into an angry V. He grabbed Andy's wrist with thick calloused fingers and jerked him towards the stove top. 

"Asshole. I have immunity, this dish can go down in flames and I'm not going home for it."

He flung the lid off a stovetop pot, thick white vapor curling out. Andy pulled back with full force, futilely resisting Stan's vice grip as he yanked him closer to the open pot.

"Hey. HEY!" Andy panicked. The other chefs paused to see the commotion. Maria sprinted across the room to try and stop them. "Fuck - ow - fuck, Stan come on man!"

Andy jerked back hard but couldn't overpower the enraged Swiss. He plunged both their hands into the pot. Andy closed his eyes and yelled through gritted teeth. 

The searing pain never arrived. Andy unclenched his jaw and opened his eyes, pulling his hand out of the pot as Stan laughed. He wasn't burned. He was actually cold. The confusion played out across his face as he stared at his hand.

Stan doubled over in laughter. "I'm not crazy!" he choked out. "The fish came packed on dry ice. Oh, you should've seen your face!" 

Stan's body shook. Maria grabbed Andy's hand and inspected it. Finding nothing, she dropped it and stalked back out of the room. The closest cameraman gave her a thumbs up to indicate he'd captured the whole bizarre incident.

Andy puffed his cheeks up and let out a long sigh. "That is the opposite of funny."

Stan smiled up at him. "For you, sure."

He plodded away, shaking off the slight pain where Stan had clasped onto his wrist. He walked a lap around the kitchen, then another, in hopes the sharp scent of scallions and sizzle of proteins could clear his head. Feet on auto pilot led him to Grigor, never consulting his brain. He rested his head on the cold metal table and felt familiar fingers in his hair.

"He's genuinely a psychopath," Andy murmured into the table.

Grigor's lips were warm against the back of his neck, a hot flash that quickly disappeared. 

Andy groaned, his face squashed beside a tray of steaks. "My fuckin wrist hurts and I'm not happy about it."

He shot upwards, back straight and eyes darting around the kitchen as his mind whirred. "What are you using those leeks for?"

Grigor shook his head. "Ok, I guess your wrist is fine."

"Yeah yeah, I'm a pouty cunt, welcome to your new life. Can I have those leeks?"

Grigor barely nodded before Andy scooped them up in his arms and was running around the kitchen, mumbling about a blender and "only so much time."

Domi moped beside Grigor, phone still in her hand. The giddy excitement of seeing her husband and dog after weeks away had curdled, and turned into an ethereal longing she couldn't shake. Grigor leaned his head on top of hers.

"Lady, I need you to come back to me." He slid his palm over the phone and gently slipped it into his coat pocket. "You can't both get pouty on me. And you've got a whole lot of eggs to poach."

Domi stared at the rows and rows of raw eggs in front of her. Grigor had cooked nearly a dozen slivered steaks for their dish and continued to sear more. She had no hope of catching up before time ran out. She couldn't will herself to care.

"What will you do?" She looked up at Grigor with wet eyes. "You're so good."

Grigor couldn't quite piece together whether she was talking about their quickly dwindling time on the clock or something more. 

"I'm really not." He flipped multiple steaks in the pan.

"No. You're so good together. He came right to you, embarrassed and whining and I'm sure that's not the first person who's attempted to murder Andy Murray. But you were calm and sweet. You gave him something, focus, and he was all better."

"I didn't do anything! I couldn't even think of something to say."

Domi smiled like it hurt her. "That's the point. That's not what he needed from you. He just wanted to complain and be kissed. Don't we all?"

She stared back at her row of eggs. Grigor followed her gaze and tried to process what she was saying. 

"I need to go home."

Grigor didn't argue, the battle was already lost. 

"Ok. You want a steak first?"

Domi let herself laugh. "Ohh this is crazy. Right? I can't believe I'm throwing this away! But - ohh - what are you going to do? You can't stop here, with this show. He needs you. And you need - something. Don't you? I can see it." 

Grigor flipped the same steak twice before pulling it off the heat. He hadn't bothered to think about what came next, what was in his future outside of another morning shower that made his knees buckle. But Domi was right, Nick was right, they were all right. The small moments, the pictures together and the passing storms of Andy's anger, of his self pity, of his humor and desire simply to be in Grigor's arms, their want to build each other up, to learn and cook and play and explore and bite and comfort. It was building beyond the show. And Grigor realized he had no idea where Andy lived. What he'd return to after leaving his own job to come on the show. If the two of them had anything in common once the kitchen and cameras were nowhere in sight.

"Oh shit," Domi waved her arms in front of Grigor's face. "I broke him. Pinot Grigor. Hey!" She snapped her fingers, hoping to bring him back to reality.

Grigor abruptly let go of his pan and wrapped his arms around her. 

"I'm going to miss you!" 

"Hey, hey" she mumbled into the fabric of his coat. "It's ok."

He gripped tighter, desperate, Domi's face pressed against his chest. 

"My name is Grigor Dimitrov and I live in Chicago, Illinois, and I'm on Facebook and everything!"

His chest shook against her cheek for only a moment. She rubbed his back, both struggling to calm their breathing. Like every chef on the show, every immigrant who'd ever left home, Grigor had made too many goodbyes in his life. Domi left her face buried in his coat and promised him that this wasn't another one. Not for good.

-

"Hey, boyo," Andy approached with a wide grin and an armful of condiments. "You've got some work to do!"

He dumped the bottles on the table and began setting them up in a line. "Ok, this is everything. You know I can't make it for you."

Grigor feigned a swoon, obvious resentment leaking around the edges. "You mean you're not here to rescue me?"

"Superman, I am not."

"Hmm, costume idea for later." Grigor inspected the vinegar bottle in front of him. "You're sure this is a good idea? Like, I can't just throw some ketchup on it?"

Andy winced. Ketchup was too acidic. It was tomato flavored high-fructose corn syrup that Americans seemed to love. It would drown the thin flanks of steak Grigor had already perfectly seared. Over power the balance between the tenderness and the crunch and the salt and the sear and the umami and the moment that starts as a burst of flavor before fading into a memory so satisfying you can feel it in your belly. A béarnaise sauce, meant to amplify the wonderful fattiness of the steak, would provide the perfect compliment. They would compliment each other better, couldn't Grigor see, in a way that neither element needed but in a way that made them both stronger.

Instead, Andy pointed to the food he wished could speak for him and simply said "You've got 15 minutes."

He left the table to avoid distracting the Bulgarian, the air heavy with all they'd left unsaid and the ominous tic of the clock behind them. Without Domi's poached eggs, Grigor had mere minutes to create another element to save his dish. Andy, meanwhile, wasn't worried about the clock. He could manage time. He couldn't manage Stan.

-

"Chefs, this is a most unusual competition today." Venus addressed the contestants with a half-hearted smile. "We're extremely disappointed that Domi has decided to step away from the competition."

The remaining chefs shuffled uncomfortably, relief mingling with the reservoir of homesickness Domi had tapped within them all. Venus clapped her hands loudly.

"As a result, that means today we're only focused on declaring a winner! So let's have some fun and taste some dishes. Genie, Caroline, Nick - what did you make for us today?"

Genie brushed her coat clean. "This is chicken three ways. I created the chicken-lollipop with a pesto dipping sauce as a starter. Nick made a chicken cacciatore. And Caroline made a chicken and chocolate mole to finish."

"And Stan," Venus cocked her head to one side. "I heard you had an exciting day in the kitchen today. What did you and Andy prepare for us?"

"I made a salt encrusted baked sea bass," he said, a side eye and satisfied grin tossed towards an unprepared Andy. "The crust is made of salt, egg whites, and thyme leaves. The sea bass itself is baked along with lemon slices, parsley, and bay leaves."

Grigor pulled at his sleeve, resisted the urge to rip it off. He was utterly incapable of a poker face, but after his outburst at Aga's elimination he was determined to keep his composure in front of the judges. Still, the grilled sea bass Stan and Andy agreed upon was nowhere to be seen as the Swiss spoke about his salt encrusted baked dish. He was sinking the ship and using his immunity as a life preserver.

The waiters walked in with large bowls and placed them in front of the judges. Venus inspected the bowl with confusion, lifting up a spoon and dribbling the soup back into the bowl. 

Tom was baffled. "You baked sea bass and it turned into a soup?"

"Actually!" Andy stepped forward, refusing to turn his head to glare at Stan. "We made a quick pivot with the dish. I originally planned on making a risotto along with Stan's sea bass. However, I discovered the risotto and salted sea bass would be ungodly salty and would surely send one of us home."

Stan scrunched his face up, tried not to reveal the fact that he had no idea Andy has prepared a completely different dish.

"This," Andy continued, "is actually a white gazpacho made from leeks, grapes, almonds, cucumbers, and sour cream, finished with salted sea bass for some protein and texture."

Tom, Eva, and Rafa had finished half their bowls by the time Andy had finished his explanation. Venus sat patiently until he was done before tasting the dish.

"That is... the perfect summer soup." She leaned back in her chair. "So what happened to the risotto, did you just abandon that plan?"

Andy finally let himself look at Stan, a smile creeping across his face. "Well, as partners, we really pushed each other to a new level. This dish, umm.... It's way bigger than risotto now."

"Well, congratulations," Venus swallowed another spoonful. "I think it's safe to say you are the winner of today's challenge. Not only is that another $10,000 to add to your haul, but this dish will also be turned into a summer soup available in frozen food sections thanks to Evert's Healthy Express. Well done, you two. Especially you, Andy. Well played."

The other chefs slapped Andy on the back. Stan shook his hand, hard, watching for the slight twinge from Andy's sore wrist.

"Well played, indeed." He leaned in closer. "How'd you know what to make?"

Andy patted Stan on the back, their hands still clasped. 

"I didn't. I know I can't win a power game against you," he squeezed Stan's hand for emphasis. "But a matador knows when the bull is about to charge." 

They patted each other on the back again, the cameras picking up only polite banter and thin smiles. Andy turned away and shook hands with Caroline and Nick. Genie squeezed his shoulder and tried not to roll her eyes. 

Andy fumbled for just a moment, lifting his arm up to high five Grigor before their lips met. He stumbled back, grabbing on to Grigor for support and steadying himself. 

"A fucking high five?" Grigor wrapped his arms around Andy's waist. "Are you kidding me?"

Andy shrugged. He wasn't used to celebrating. Hell, he wasn't much used to winning. 

"Jamie gets mad if I kiss him."

"Stop!" Grigor squeezed him and fought off a smile. "But you keep winning and you could open twenty restaurants by the time the show ends."

Something strange shifted in Andy's expression. His eyes narrowed, far away, before returning to Grigor's face. He kissed him. Not hard and urgent, but gingerly. Intentionally. Their noses brushing as Andy pulled himself away. Andy hadn't let himself think about reopening Hey Judy since it's demise. But he'd let Grigor dream of it for him.

-

They practically raced out of the van and scrambled up the hill towards their cabin, fingers undoing coat buttons in a flurry before they even stepped foot in doors. Andy shut the door behind them and barely flicked the lock before Grigor was on him, pressing his back against the wood door, roving hands searching for exposed skin anywhere on Andy's body. A day's worth of excitement, anger, simmering attraction, all humming through them now as pure lust.

Andy kissed the side of his neck and tried to form coherent thoughts. "Do we need to," he met Grigor's lips with enthusiasm, their tongues dancing until the Bulgarian was suddenly focused on pushing the coat off Andy's shoulders.

"Hey," he mumbled into Grigor's lips. "Do we need to talk? About Domi. About this?" 

Andy felt fingers tugging at this zipper. 

"Later then."

He rolled, pinning Grigor against the door. He gripped his wrist and held it over Grigor's head, planting hard wet kisses against his lips, cheeks, neck. Grigor's free hand managed to push down Andy's jeans, his cock springing free and brushing against Grigor's thigh. They rocked their hips together, breathes catching in their throats and bodies in sync. Shirts became piles on the floor and the two men stumbled into bed without pulling themvelves apart.

Andy panted in Grigor's ear, his voice already thick but suddenly timid. "I don't want to hurt you."

Grigor wrapped his hand around Andy's shaft, eliciting a gasp as he pumped his already slick cock. "Tell me what you do want."

He bit at Andy's lip, his hand slowly, achingly, stroking Andy to the tip and back down. "No more unfinished sentences. No more about what you don't want, Andy. What do you want. What do you need." 

He twisted his grip around Andy's head and felt the moan reverberate between their chests. 

"Ohh fuck! Oh, you know what I want."

Grigor's hips rose to meet Andy's hand but he refused to be distracted. "No. I need to hear it." He thrust into Andy's grip, careful not to overdo it. "You need to tell me what you want."

"I want you, dammit!" Andy bucked his hips, his lips messy against Grigor's face. "All to my self. I want to make you a mess. I want to fuck you, feel you open and exposed and all mine. Not just here. I want all of you."

Grigor had tapped a spring in Andy that neither could keep from bubbling over. Their legs intertwined and their chests slid against each other as sweat formed on Andy's brow, filthy and sweet murmurs escaping his lips. He was through holding back. 

Grigor yelped as a lubed finger found his hole, teasing for a moment before sliding inside him.

"Ok?"

He nodded, the want in Andy's voice more satisfying than anything. Andy craned his neck to kiss him, lips that were becoming familiar, soft, aggressive, his tongue swirling and exploratory. Andy had become completely lost in him. 

Grigor's hands coaxed Andy on, a barely clenched fist pulling small surprised moan's from his throat over and over. He'd never been so singularly wanted, so in control as someone else was about to take him, open to fingers so excited they trembled inside him and lips so hungry Andy couldn't pull himself away. It was minutes before Andy pushed another inside him. Grigor pushed back, a long calm moan egging Andy on. 

Andy broke their kiss, mumbling into Grigor's ear. "There you go babe. I love feeling you ready to take me." Grigor's cock jumped as Andy's fingers twisted deeper inside him, dirty talk and tender touch pushing him into a frenzy. He couldn't wrap his head around what he felt, his body surging with pleasure, consuming, ethereal, dizzying. A sudden bolt shot through his body.

"Woah!" Grigor gripped Andy's arm, fingers clawing into his bicep.

"Found it." Andy's voice was thick with lust, pride. His fingers sped up, his cock throbbing. Grigor kept his hand on Andy's arm, sliding to his shoulder and pulling him in for another kiss. He struggled to steady his breath.

"You like feeling me inside you?" Andy leaned in with his entire weight, pinning Grigor against the bed with his chest. Grigor tried to answer, a hum buzzing against Andy's lips. 

Grigor felt his cock brush against Andy's, felt Andy drip. The contact caused Andy's back to go rigid.

"You're just dying to fuck me, aren't you?" Grigor looked into Andy's eyes, searching to see how much of him was still there. "Say it."

"I have to have you." 

Grigor wrapped his legs around Andy's waist, could see he'd reached fever pitch. "You want me?"

"I fucking need you." Andy was a step away from begging. He slid his fingers out and grabbed Grigor's wrists, the slick head of his cock achingly close to Grigor's hole. 

"Yeah? You want to make a man out of me?" Grigor rocked his hips, the slight touch enough to draw a gasp from Andy. It was all the teasing he could take.

"I've never wanted anything the way I want you." He pulled Grigor towards him, easily throwing his knees over Andy's broad shoulders.

"Easy." Grigor slowed him down for a moment. Andy gulped, nodded recognition. He'd gotten too worked up. Forgot he'd rolled a condom on a few minutes ago in a manic blur.

"Are you comfortable?" Andy looked in his eyes, waiting for Grigor to nod yes as he slicked them both with lubricant.

Grigor felt a brief moment of panic as the width of Andy's cock pressed against him. 

"Breathe." 

Grigor hadn't realized he was holding his breath. Andy smiled, ran his hands over Grigor's sensitive chest until his body relaxed. His eyes trying to memorize the beautiful sight below him.

Andy pushed his hips forward, slowly. A low moan rumbled out of both men. Grigor bit as his lip, remembered to breathe.

"How you doing, boyo?" His hands curled under Grigor's shoulders, their chest pressed together.

"I'm great." Grigor grinned, loved the feeling of Andy's body pressed against his own. Felt him settle deeper inside. "Start slow."

Andy was amazed at his own restraint. He eased in slowly again, sinking into Grigor a little deeper each minute, a current of affirmations and excited babble spilling from his lips. Grigor wanted to feel all of him, felt his cock wag as Andy buried himself to the root. He leaned in, pushing Grigor's knees towards his ears and kissing him gently.

"There you go, babe. I am absolutely buried inside you." He kissed him again and again, unable to stop himself, his hand running through Grigor's hair. He didn't move his hips for minutes, just resting inside him, feeling Grigor adjust to the girth inside him.

"I want you to get used to me. I belong buried inside you." His tone was hushed, sweet. He waited longer, stroking Grigor's cock and grinding his hips against him. Andy bucked sharply, felt Grigor get even harder in his hand. Andy grinned.

"Ready?"

He bucked again, one hand still around Grigor's shoulder, the other gently wrapped around Grigor's cock between them. Andy hips began a slow steady rhythm. Grigor relaxed into the sensations assaulting him from every angle.

His voice went ragged with every thrust. He pulled Andy's face back to his own, whispering in his ear. "Just like that, Andy. Come on. Harder. Mmhmm." His lips were sloppy against Andy's ear, their pace building.

Grigor's entire body tingled as Andy pulled out again, his hole stretched around Andy's head. He felt full, fulfilled, like they really did belong intertwined like this. Andy's eyes said he felt the same. He stayed like that for a moment, a brief tease before pushing back harder than before. The intensity of Grigor's moans letting Andy know he was right where he wanted him.

Andy leaned up on his elbows, dopey smile and hazy eyes peering down on Grigor. "You are so beautiful, you know that?"

Grigor arms were around him, pulling their bodies back together, their lips and hips moving with abandon. In sync and intentional, hearts racing and bodies pulsating, the moment overtaking their thoughts. 

Grigor felt Andy inside him, crashing into him and pumping his body for every sensation he could unearth, leaving him empty and filling him again and again. Each thrust deeper and harder, hitting something inside him that sent a termor through Grigor's body.

"Oh, fuck, Andy you feel so good."

"You're fucking fantastic," Andy spoke without pulling his lips from Grigor's, mumbling into his cheek as their bodies tumbled together. "Yeah, I'm really fucking that ass now, Grigor. Let me in, babe. So deep. Stroke your cock for me, I want to feel you cum while I'm inside you."

Grigor felt the familiar sensation building, powerless to prolong the moment as the heavy beat of Andy's hips relentless drove him forward. A thin sheen covered his body as he plunged deeper inside Grigor. His eyes tender, amazed, consumed. 

Andy's body slipped against him, the warmth of his skin and sweat on his hard stomach too much for Grigor to resist. He gripped at the bed sheets, his eyes rolling back and clenching shut.

"Andy, I'm gonna-" his lips were met with a hard kiss as his body relented. He screamed into the lips wrapped around his own, tearing at the sheets and bucking his hips up as he coated Andy's abs with wave after wave of cum. His entire body shuttered, gripping Andy impossibly tight and putting an end to any fantasy the Scot had about lasting another moment. He sunk his teeth into Grigor's bottom lip and pumped into him ferociously. Grigor felt Andy's muscle spasm, his cock impossibly expanding as he emptied himself, wanting to claim Grigor, be a part of him. Andy thrust weakly again before collapsing on top of him, a sweaty mess unable to pick his head up from Grigor's chest.

"Holy shit." Grigor struggled to catch his breath. Andy listened intently as his heart beat wildly against his ear. "That was intense.

Andy struggled to lift himself onto his elbows, arms shaking. He looked Grigor in the eyes, sucked in a few deep breaths, kissed him.

"I, um.... wow." Andy let out a laugh, flexed his hands, fingers still tingling. 

"You have no idea what you do to me." He sighed and rested his head on Grigor's chest. Grigor wasn't sure what he was doing to either of them, or how long it could last, but he couldn't be bothered to care as they drifted to sleep. Warm, intertwined, and entirely content.

-

It was still dark when a cold shiver woke him, the breeze from an open cabin window hitting his skin. Grigor sat up in bed, his eyes adjusting. The bed beside him was empty, the spare bed still full of clothes. A towel on the floor suggested Andy had cleaned them both up in Grigor's sleep.

Andy sat at the little kitchen table provided with the cabin, glasses perched on his nose and a small reading lamp angled towards the wall to avoid casting too much light. Andy knew he was busted the second he heard Grigor's footsteps behind him, didn't fight the hands that began kneading his bare shoulders.

"Hey, boyo." His voice was still sleepy.

"Hey yourself, shifty eyes. What're you doing up?"

"Couldn't sleep." Andy shrugged his shoulders as Grigor squeezed them. He dropped his pen and tried to discreetly ball up a napkin on the kitchen table.

Grigor pulled the other chair next to Andy and sat down. "Do you want to tell me what that is?" 

His question was genuine. Andy looked down at his hands, eyes tired.

"No."

"Ok. But do you want me to ask anyway?" Grigor patted Andy's clenched fist, bits of napkin poking out between white knuckles.

"Yes."

"Andy," Grigor put his hand over Andy's fist. "You have to say things. Out loud. Tell me what's on the napkin."

He opened his hand and smoothed the napkin out on the table, sliding it under the lamp light. Grigor inspected it for only a moment, his heart pounding in his chest as he scanned the dashes and check marks, the scribbled tabs and equations, stray words like "overhead" and "utilities" in the corners, and doodle of a caterpillar in a cowboy hat along one crease.

Andy was silent. He rubbed the back of his neck, ashamed to look at anything other than the floor. Grigor waited, his eyes heavy but unwavering.

"I'm getting closer," Andy finally whispered. 

He hadn't thought about it, didn't dare consider it, until a cute boy put the bug in his ear. And now, in a cabin at 3am, he stared at the napkin that said it was possible. He said it out loud for the first time, his words bringing his desire to life just the way it had hours ago. 

"I'd have to win. But I'm close." His eyes darted from the napkin to Grigor and back.

Grigor licked his lips, trying to choose his words carefully. "And that scares you?"

He nodded, pushing a long slow exhale from his chest and willing himself to look Grigor in the eyes. 

"Ok... I'm afraid I'm not really good at this cooking stuff. That people are just being nice because of my looks." 

Andy laughed, didn't mean to. "That's insane. Look, you're in a competition purely because you're a good cook. You just happen to look fantastic doing it."

Grigor pressed his lips to Andy's forehead. "Still."

"My widow's peak is growing." Andy pushed his hairline back. "I might end up looking like a Windsor." 

Grigor laughed, eyes bright. "It is not!"

"It is, believe me! I'm doomed."

"You're crazy."

"Crazy like a balding fox." Andy shook his head for emphasis.

Grigor thought for a moment. "Yeah, well, one of my balls is lower than the other."

Andy hated the giggle that sprung out of him. "They're supposed to be like that, boyo."

"Really?" Grigor lifted an eyebrow.

"That one doesn't count."

Grigor shifted in his chair, knees brushing against Andy's. "I'm scared all I'll ever be proud of is my looks."

Andy caught his breath, his eyes looked wounded. "You're so much more. You've got so much more."

"I've got a pretty face to put in front of some broccoli rabe, but I've got no plan."

"Hey, life takes time to shake out."

"So does hair." Grigor shot back. Andy laughed, lips curled in mock smugness.

"That's not funny."

"But you're laughing."

Andy put a hand on Grigor's knee. "You make me laugh, so you got that going for you. And-" he paused, leaning back in his chair. He lips twitched but he didn't say another word.

Grigor looked at him, tired smile on his face. "You know I'm going to make you say it. So... out with it."

"Nothing," Andy shifted uncomfortably. "You make me laugh. If we're listing things that scare us. That's a big one for me. You make me feel a lot of things I haven't thought about in a long time... I sleep better with you, here. There's a rhythm to your breath when you're asleep."

Grigor listened quietly. It was possibly the most intimate thing anyone had ever told him. It was something he'd given Andy without knowing it.

"Ok," he thought for a moment. "I skip songs on my phone right before they end so no one can see how many times I listen to them.

Andy burst with laughter. His laugh provoking one from Grigor.

"That's the most ridiculous thing in the world!"

"More ridiculous than worrying about a perfectly good head of hair?"

'Hey," Andy tried to stop laughing, to calm down a bit. "The human body is a weird thing!"

They laughed for a moment and caught their breathes. A gentle silence settled into the room. Andy reached for the lamp, two clicks echoing through the cabin before the light flicked off and left them in darkness. Grigor's hand led him back into their bed, sheets tangled and pillows thrown to the floor.

Andy fell back with a heavy sigh, closing his eyes as he felt Grigor chest against his back, an arm sliding over and pulling him closer.

He burrowed into a pillow. Listened to the ceiling fan whirl. He cleared his throat.

"I'm a little crazy sometimes. I get a hot head, say things I don't always mean." Andy said the words slowly. "Just so you know."

Somewhere outside a frog croaked, Grigor listened to it's slow cadence and rolled sleepy thoughts through his head. He pressed his nose into Andy's hair.

"It's ok." He said it simply, accepting. "I used to be lonely."

Thoughts and equations drifted through Andy's mind like tufts of cottonwood. Their clothes still lay in a heap by the door. A pile of tattered napkins littered the table. But Grigor's breath in his ear, rhythmic and unhurried, drowned out Andy's thoughts, drowned out the sound of the little frog outside, as he drifted back to sleep.


	9. Episode Six - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> RESTAURANT WARS. 
> 
> Six chefs remain. Andy, Genie, and Caroline rush to open their own restaurant.

**Nevertheless**  
Papaya salad  
Red wine braised short ribs  
Chicken with loroco cream sauce  
Paella  
Donut holes  
Sgroppino

"No fucking way." Andy gripped the green Whole Foods cart and pushed it back and forth. Genie and Caroline stared at him with blank faces and slack jaws. 

"Way," Genie said. 

"C'mon, Andy. You have to do it." Caroline clasped her hands together, pleading. "I get nervous talking to strangers. I get all self-conscious."

Andy looked to Genie. "What about you? People like you for... obvious reasons."

"That's sexist," she huffed.

"I'm not condoning it, I'm just saying - it's a fact. You run front of house, I'll work as executive chef. I promise to be sure your dish comes out perfect."

"No! I've never fucking worked front of house before and I'm not going out of this competition because you think a girl should be the host."

The three stared at each other. The wheels of the cart squeaked as Andy rocked it. Caroline busied herself by grabbing as many papayas as possible from the fruit display. 

"So," she dumped an armful of papaya into the noisy cart. "I'm out. My public speaking is shit. You two - rock paper scissors?"

Andy shot a glance towards Genie. She matched his shrug. 

"One shot. Rock - paper - scissors - shoot. Agreed?"

Genie nodded. Caroline chanted aloud. They shook their fists rhythmically as Andy considered what he knew about Genie. She was skillful, almost deceptively capable. She was bold and quick to anger. He laid his hand flat - paper - ready for his open palm to smother her clenched fist.

He looked down at Genie's splayed fingers. She'd picked scissors. Figures.

"I win!" She shot both fists into the air. "You think you've got us all figured out, don't you?"

"Not very well, apparently." He knocked a papaya out of Caroline's hands in irritation.

"We have to pay for that if it's bruised, ya know."

Genie patted Andy on the shoulder and ran down another aisle. Caroline scooped the papaya off the floor and tossed it in the cart. Andy stuck an idle hand into the mist of the fruit display. Luck hadn't been on his side all day. Now being stuck seating and serving guests at a pop-up restaurant, one that they had only a day to put together, was not going to help.

He wiped his hand along his own shirt sleeve and pushed the cart forward. Caroline rolled her eyes.

"Ooookay, Andy. What did he do?"

"Hmm?!" Andy snapped back to reality. 

"Grigor. What'd he do? Or what did you do? You've been a grump all day and I don't like cooking with grumps. Food comes out all gray."

Andy stuck a calloused hand back under the misters as he walked.

"You-ugh, you've been with a lot of guys, right?" he mumbled, his head turned towards the produce and away from Caroline.

"Um. No. Not a lot, thank you very much."

"No! Shit, not like that. I mean, umm - relationships. Like," Andy rubbed the back of his neck, recoiling at the unexpected sensation of his hand drenching the back of his shirt.

"Fuck!" He flicked water across the tile. "Jesus, this day is not - fuck."

Caroline tried to stifle a laugh. She put a hand on the shopping cart, fingers brushing against Andy's.

"Both hands on the cart, Andy." She studied his face, waited for him to look her in the eyes before letting go. He pushed the cart with both hands and feigned interest in the celery.

"Ok." He spoke slowly. "So. This morning. Well. He's got this tone. This deeply edgy, dark tone -"

"His sassy mood?" Caroline attempted to speed up Andy's catharsis.

"No, not sassy. Angry. I've heard it before, when Juan interrupted _us._ But this morning, whatever came up in his producer's interview... He won't tell me, but it was like that again. But worse." Andy started walking faster, the speed of his words kept pace.

"And jesus what if I don't know him at all? Not really, you know? But he wouldn't tell me, and I guess he doesn't have to but we've been telling each other everything, so why -"

"Andy, sweetheart, I'm going to cut you off because you're muttering." She turned her attention away from a pile of bagged spinach.

"Look - you don't know him inside out. He doesn't know you. But you're getting closer. So just unclench a little, buddy."

She held up a frozen package stuffed with green leaves. "Is this loroco?"

"If you don't know what it is on sight then you shouldn't cook with it."

"Too late." She tossed the greens in with the papayas. "The cart has spoken."

They walked down another aisle as Andy rolled her comments around in his head. His right hand was still slick along the cart handle, his left somehow clammy with nerves.

"I guess I'm just used to being the moody one." He finally spoke. "What do you do when Nick's being all Nick-like?"

She threw a drum of ginger snaps into the cart with force. "No. That is not a relationship. You guys are actually a THING thing. The rest of us are all taking bets on how soon before he follows you home to New York, whereas -"

"You what?!" It burst out of Andy, the shock and excitement magnifying each other.

Caroline's cheeks took on a hint of red and she scrunched up her face. "Eh, strike that from the record. Anyway, Nick is not a relationship. He's a mistake I made our first week."

"And like four more times after that."

Caroline grabbed the ginger snaps from the cart and shook them at Andy violently. "Not your business. But, ok, yeah. A few times. The point is, I don't do anything when he's in his annoying moods. Just let them pass. He'll knock on my door when he's ready to be an adult."

It still stunned Andy how comfortable the chefs had become around the cameras. He hadn't even considered the fact that the cameraman behind them had captured a private conversation. He'd grown numb to the intrusion until Caroline had mentioned striking a comment from the record. Normally when he wanted to be sure the producers didn't use his quote he'd just slide the word "fuck" in-between every other word to make the sentence unusable for American television. Grigor had taken to putting his middle finger over his mouth, knowing the editors wouldn't bother to use the censored camera shot. 

They'd gotten used to the confessionals, too. Slowly each of the contestants had given more quotes, shared more details as they grew comfortable in the tiny booths. It was during his last confessional that something rattled Grigor. The sound of the bedroom door slamming shut when he returned had startled Andy awake. 

Andy tried to shake the memory from his mind. Tried to forget the rapid fire Bulgarian cursing, the thrown shirts torn from their tidy hangars, the way Grigor recoiled from Andy's touch. Grigor refused to talk about it, instead pacing the room and pulling at his hair for half an hour. He'd come undone. Andy felt useless. Grigor finally calmed down as he collapsed onto the bed and mumbled apologies into Andy's chest. 

The loud crash of Genie throwing an oversized bag of rice into the cart startled Andy, brought him back to the moment. 

"You're going to crush the papaya!" Caroline scrambled to make room in the cart.

"Sorry," Genie said, her tone distinctly meaning _not sorry_. "I would've asked for help but I didn't want to interrupt all the slumber party talk about boys."

"Oh fuck off then." Andy turned and smiled at the camera man behind them. He waved for emphasis.

"Real talk, though" Genie said, eyes fixed on Andy. "I have no idea what he sees in you, but Grigor saw it right from the start, whatever it is. And it's not like you're exactly a joy to be around."

Andy inspected the gigantic bag of basmati rice that Genie and thrown in the cart. "You can't make paella with basmati, you'll fuck up the texture. Go put it back. And second - what do you mean 'you don't see what he sees in me'? I'm charming. I'm available. I've got a lovable accent."

"Whatever." She hoisted the bag out of the cart. 

"Spanish rice. Arborio as a last resort." He still couldn't believe she chose scissors.

Genie kissed him on the cheek. "Lighten up, Andy. I don't see what's in it for him, but clearly he does. You got lucky. Plus," she fought to gain her grip on the rice, "we're gonna _fucking_ win!"

The three of them turned to the camera man and waved again. Andy might not know how to handle the problems in his bedroom, but there wasn't much he was afraid to tackle in the kitchen. And they had an entire restaurant to build.

-

 **Nevertheless**  
Papaya salad  
~~Red wine braised short ribs~~  
Pupusas with frijoles, queso, and chicharron  
Chicken with loroco cream sauce  
Paella  
Donut holes  
Sgroppino

Restaurant Wars was about more than making a striking dish. It was about creating an entire restaurant concept, running exceptional service, picking the menu, plating the dishes just so, and doing all of it better than the team competing against you the next day. 

Andy made an itemized list and discovered there were preciously a million places to go wrong. Courses clashing. Waiters forgetting to fire tickets. Vegetarian guests crashing the judges' table. Chefs hated Restaurant Wars. Audiences loved it. It's where fan favorites made a case to truly be considered Top Chef.

For the first time, Genie felt relief when hearing Andy's name alongside hers. She'd never made it to Hey Judy, but she knew no one in the competition had more experience running a restaurant than Andy.

"Alright, yeah," he conceded, elbow deep in a pot of dough after their Whole Foods excursion, "I have the most experience running a restaurant. But it wasn't a successful restaurant."

"Well, shit." Genie pursed her lips. "Still, we've got an advantage over Team Boys." She pointed towards something Andy couldn't be bothered to look up at.

"I am a biological male, just to be clear." Andy said, eyes focused on his pupusa dough.

Andy yelped, jumping as he felt broad palms worm their way into his pockets and a warm weight press against his back. A stubbled chin grazed the back of his neck.

"Thank god for that, yeah?" Grigor nodded his head, his chin razor-burning Andy's neck.

"Jesus! Scare the living piss out of me. What're you doing here?!" Andy turned, lowered his voice. "Are you allowed back here?"

"Yes, we are!" Stan said, voice loud to announce his arrival in the kitchen. "We're allowed one check in. How's it going?"

Nick walked into the kitchen and made a beeline for Caroline, who gleefully pushed his face away with her palm until he retreated to Genie's station. 

Genie looked between Stan and Nick expectantly.

"Yes? Comments. Criticisms. Concerns?"

"No," Stan said, arms folded. "Looks... competent. You're making some sort of tomato porridge?"

"Paella."

"Sure it is." He walked away, his voice practically patting Genie on the head with condescension. She waited for Nick to follow Stan's lead. Instead he just grinned.

"It smells pretty good, honestly."

Genie had no interest in entertaining Nick. "Get out of here! Caroline, come pick him up!"

"Noooope," Caroline shouted across the kitchen. 

Grigor turned his eyes down to Andy's shoes. "Hey. This morning. I'm sorry. I was just - they really threw me off."

"Maria?" Andy chased Grigor's eyes around the room but was never allowed to catch them.

"Fucking Maria," Grigor said. "She gets to me. Says things in Russian like we don't know she's talking about us but she's been here so long her accent is just bananas."

"You speak Russian?" Andy pulled him in closer, felt Grigor's body grow rigid against his own.

"Uhh, kinda yeah. Bulgarian and Russian are nearly the same thing."

"Oh. Right." Andy suddenly felt uncultured, didn't realize their languages were mutually intelligible. "How do you know she's been here a long time?"

Grigor tried to act nonchalant, but his body again betrayed him in Andy's arms. "I... um, it's just her accent is Americanized, is all."

"Oh," Andy said again, nearly a question this time. "Why does she get to you so much? I mean, she gets to all of us, but I've never seen you so-"

"Hey," Grigor squeezed Andy's shoulders and looked him in the eye for the first time all day. "You've got a dish to focus on. And apparently you're running front of house, according to Juan."

"Fuck me, yeah," Andy said, attempting to exhale his stress. "I had to replan my entire dish while we were shopping so I can cook it now and leave it on hot plates while running front of house. It's fucking mental."

"You'll be brilliant." Grigor kissed him, chaste but intentional, there was no hiding their relationship from cameras at this point. "What're you making?"

"Pupusas! Salvadoran street food, like delicious steroid quesadillas."

"So... bread?"

"No. But kinda. It's corn based." Andy wasn't sure how else to explain. He offered a bowl full of dough to Grigor, who eagerly sunk his hands in and began kneading.

Andy tried to study the expression on his face for a tell, tried to dig into what exactly Maria had said that made Grigor this uncomfortable. Instead he found himself smiling back at the dopey grin across from him, Grigor's hands digging into the dough as he laughed.

"This stuff is wild! Its like corn bread dough."

Andy couldn't keep his eyes off Grigor's giddy kneading. "Is that corn bread - comma - dough? Or corn - comma - bread dough?" 

"It feels cool."

"I follow." Andy's eyes glittered. He leaned into Grigor's ear. "You know, you gotta keep one jump ahead of the breadline."

Grigor laughed. "One swing ahead of the sword?"

"I steal only what I can't afford." Andy used the line as an excuse to swipe his bowl back from Grigor, who couldn't wipe the smile from his face.

"Alright, street rat." He kissed Andy's cheek. "Good luck."

"Front of house rat, thank you very much." Andy puffed up his chest. 

Producers shooed Grigor, Stan, and Nick out of the kitchen. They'd have tomorrow to open their own competing restaurant. Today, Andy and the ladies had to stay one step ahead.

-

Despite being thrown together in a few hours by three chefs and a dozen stage hands, Nevertheless looked alarmingly chic. The increasingly eclectic menu played well with mismatched decor. Dark wood tables, exposed red brick walls, thin rope lights along the crevices of the walls, all created a restaurant that felt like a warmly lit beer garden. The multi color plates looked like something reused from a quinceanera, the napkins swiped from a musty country club, the plastic red cups on loan from any forgotten Chinese restaurant. The space felt lived in and without place.

It was only after producers ushered in the first wave of diners that a fatal flaw was discovered. Their lighting may have been soft and generous but their picnic style seating made it impossible to assign table numbers. Andy greeted guests with a forced smile and slick palms, then sat them at tables without being able to write down who had ordered what. Nevertheless was open for business.

80 guests later, Nevertheless was a slow moving hit. Quickly realizing the horror show they'd created by pushing too many tables together, Andy began writing tickets with a combination of directions and personal notes.

"2x pupusa - cheese only - last row, big hair." 

"6x papaya salad, poor sorority table."

"Pitcher of sgroppino. Middle table, looks like head wound."

Seating may have been slow, but food arrived to the correct tables. Andy, in a too tight dinner jacket and unbuttoned collar, dialed up his accent an extra notch and chatted with foodie celebrities who wandered in. He poured sgroppino with the pitcher over his head, cracked wise about the Queen to Americans who didn't understand the joke, and stopped just short of actually singing for his supper.

"Hello, hello. Have a seat and welcome. Nevertheless." Andy smiled. Every time it felt forced he tried to pull up mental images of a reopened Hey Judy, of his kitchen back home, of Grigor mixing corn mash, of all the things that naturally pulled the corners of his lips into a cheshire grin as he ran from table to table. 

"How was everything? Another glass of sgroppino before dessert?"

"Yes!!" An excitable group of university students lifted their flutes, wrists wobbly and cheeks red. "What's fer dessert?" 

"For dessert," Andy said, plucking another glass from another hand as he refilled drinks, "is a donut hole sampler with - _what the hell is that?"_

Andy stared in horror at the gigantic blob on a plate. The waiter backed away from the table. The students looked positively giddy, oblivious to Andy's disbelief.

"Umm... this is. For dessert is... Beignets! This is a modernized beignet, with a, ugh what looks to be confectioner's sugar and a marmalade dipping sauce. Enjoy!"

 **Nevertheless**  
Papaya salad  
~~Red wine braised short ribs~~  
Pupusas with frijoles, queso, chicharron, and loroco  
~~Chicken with loroco cream sauce~~  
Paella  
~~Donut holes~~  
Beignets  
Sgroppino

He made a bee line to the kitchen. The earliest desserts were just being served and already it was clear something had gone horribly awry with their planned dish. He'd made it past the middle row of tables, whose tickets' he'd written up as "central tables. kinda to the leftish. rich hippie couple," when one of the waiters tugged on his coat.

"Hey," the young waiter, Francis maybe, looked apologetic. "This lady can't have red meat. Is there chorizo in the paella?"

Andy tapped his foot, hummed in thought. "Get her a seafood pasta. Have Genie boil some noodles, pick out the chorizo, dump the paella on top. Go go go!"

He sent the waiter off and pushed his way through the kitchen doors.

Pure carnage greeted him. Unattended pots hissed and popped, their contents burnt beyond recognition. Waiters bounced between stations, balancing too many plates on each arm. A smoky haze filled the air. Genie and Caroline ran from station to station yelling loudly, Caroline screaming a string of words that were distinctly not English. A neglected tea kettle emitted an unrelenting shriek. Andy was nearly positive tea wasn't on the menu.

"Hey!" Andy tried to yell over the din. Caroline and Genie skidded to a halt in the kitchen. 

"The fuck is going on in here? This is fucking mental. Someone grab that bloody kettle."

Genie glared at him, red faced. "No time!" 

She sprinted to another stove, ladling paella and handing it to a waiter. "Go!" She pushed the woman out the door and went back to her pot.

"We've had some setbacks," Caroline said. "We're on top of it."

Andy peered over her table to ensure his dish was being plated the way he'd instructed. Working front of house meant trusting your teammates to send your dish out exactly as prepared, and this fire drill was less than encouraging. He looked to his abandoned station, rows of papaya salad lined up on a table.

"Those have to be refrigerated until they're served! Come on, guys! Get it together."

"Hey," Caroline threw a pupusa like a frisbee, barely missing Andy's cheek. "We're doing what we can. I'm trying to fix this... donut disaster."

"Well don't. They're beignets now. Run with it!" Andy grabbed a bag of powdered sugar and expertly shook it over Caroline's freshly plated desserts. "Put those papayas in the refrigerator until they're ready!"

He ran to the swinging kitchen doors and stopped, pushing the doors open slowly, adopting a facade of serenity as he walked back into the dining room. A man in a chambray shirt and thick glasses waved him down instantly.

"Hi. Greg. Big fan," he shook Andy's hand vigorously. "From Bon Appetit magazine. I've been following your career for years."

"Oh," Andy shook his hand harder, the heat of the kitchen and the layers of his shirt and coat suddenly catching up to him as he poured sweat. "Hi, um, magazine Greg. I'm really sorry but I've got to seat a few folks. I'd love to chat with you after."

"I understand! It's just, my friend here," he pointed across his table to Gail Simmons, a pair of oversized sunglasses over her face as if she wouldn't be recognized. "My friend here just fell in love with that seafood pasta dish that the woman in the back got. Could you send one out here, too, please?"

"Hi, Gail," Andy said it loud enough for other patrons to hear. She pulled down her glasses.

"Hi, Andy. Nice to see you." She was deadpan but genuine. Gail, like every food critic, had loved Hey Judy. If only the rest of the city had felt the same way, Andy may not have been on the show in the first place.

She tapped her plate with a manicured nail, pupusa crumbs bouncing. "Seafood pasta. Yeah?"

Andy rolled his eyes and turned around to find a waiter to take Gail's special request when another stranger spoke up from a nearby table.

"Hey! Um, garçon! Can I get that spaghetti appetizer, too?! But, like, can I get it with penne instead?"

Andy turned, tried to smooth out his facial expression and lower his eyebrows. "It's a seafood pasta, and it's only served on linguine. It's tonight's special, apparently."

The man frowned, his downturned lips and puffy chin made him look like an overgrown toddler. "I really need it to be a penne pasta. I'm so sorry. I'm allergic to linguine."

Andy clenched his hands, fingernails digging into the palms. 

"You're allergic to a shape?" He could feel his teeth grinding.

"Umm... yes."

Andy tried to turn to the closest waiter but his eyes were drawn to another table. Directly behind Gail and Bon Appetit Greg, sat a table full of judges. They were joined by Nick, Grigor, and an absolutely gleeful looking Stan.

They'd barely made eye contact before Grigor excused himself from the table. Andy turned and walked to the servers' station as fast as possible, feeling the Bulgarian on his heels. He waited until they'd walked behind a curtain where bussers had stashed dirty plates before leaning against the wall and immediately feeling Grigor's chest against his own.

"Now is really not the time," Andy said. He wrapped his arms around Grigor's waist anyway, body not cooperating with his mind. Andy's pulled him in close, a soft sigh escaping as their hips pressed together.

"Hey hey hey," Grigor whispered. "You need to calm down. You look borderline volcanic." 

"I am going to explode and fossilize an entire Italian village," Andy said. "The girls are not holding it together. And I am... not holding it together."

His hands found Grigor's back pockets. He inhaled, felt his chest rise and fall against the other man's, rested his forehead on his shoulder. He was fine. His dishes were well received. His service was passable. The moment had just begun to overwhelm him, to obscure the success of the night. Grigor's shoulder gave him a moment to pull himself together.

"Hey," Andy looked up, still sucking in slow deliberate breathes. "You're good for me. You know that?

Grigor looked legitimately shocked, Andy's tone had shifted faster than he expected. 

"Mmm... thanks?"

Andy let out a choppy laugh. "No, I'm trying to thank you. I like me, around you. With you."

Grigor shifted, hips jerking to withdraw from Andy's. "Well, I like being around you." He wriggled free of Andy's grip and stepped back to get a look at him. "That's the truth, ok?"

"Yeah, of course." Andy felt like his words echoed across the small but sudden distance. "Are you ok?"

"Me? Yeah," Grigor said, his eyes downcast. 

"What the hell happened in that confessional booth?!" Andy had his hands back on Grigor's hips. "Something. Clearly."

"Later. You've got a restaurant war to fight still." He tugged at the lapels of Andy's coat. "You dress up well, by the way."

Andy's breath escaped in a huff. "Battle gear. My first outfit was Victory leading the troops but they said I couldn't have my tits out."

Grigor's smile was uneven, his eyes bounced between Andy's eyes and shoulder.

"It's a famous painting, babe."

"Oh thank god!" Grigor laughed. "I'm allowed to not get art history jokes. But it sounds like an outfit to remember."

Andy smiled back at him, charmed by the way Grigor continued to find silver linings where he would've found whatever colored-lining humiliation was. Red, he supposes.

"Ok. Well. Knock 'em dead. Or... cook 'em dead." Grigor thought for a moment. "Be so good people die, one way or another."

He brushed non-existent lint from both of Andy's shoulders, turned, and pushed his way through the curtains to walk back through the restaurant. Andy leaned against the wall, his fingers playing with the shiny black lining of his lapels where Grigor's hands had lingered. He counted to ten, waiting for Grigor to clear the room, before gliding his hands through the curtain and stepping back into the room that, for two more hours, had become Nevertheless. 

He'd just faked his way through describing a gluten free version of Caroline's beignet when he saw the signal from his lead waiter. Out of the corner of his eye. Near the swinging doors that led to the kitchen, a green napkin waved high above the waiter's head. 

The judges' dishes had arrived.

"There's also a classic paella that-" Andy caught the flash of green, "- that has rice, chorizo, and all sorts of good shit. Enjoy!"

The judges sat with studied patience, pretending to engage each other in conversation. Small singular lines of "this smells fantastic" and "this plating is sumptuous" passed between Ava and Venus. Rafa studied the diners around them and listened for criticisms from fellow diners. Tom simply stared at Andy as he approached, ready for him to perform.

"Chefs, judges, Mr Kuerten," Andy nodded towards the guest judge, whose smile threatened to stretch across the entire table. 

"Muito obrigado, chef." Tightly coiled springs of hair wagged across his forehead as he took in the spread of dishes in front of him. 

Andy hadn't idolized Gustavo Kuerten like he had Ivan Lendl, but he'd spent his adolescence reading about how he'd introduced Europe to Brazilian flavors. His signature dish was the feijoada completa, served with a ring of orange slices shaped as a heart above the black bean stew. And had been ripped pictures from magazines and stuffed them into one of his Trapper Keepers decades ago. 

"So," Venus rolled her straw between two fingers, impatience finally breaking through. "What have you made for us tonight at Nevertheless, Andy?"

His eyes scanned the overstuffed table. He saw his recognizable dish, Caroline's ridiculous donut holes cum beignets, the seafood pasta explosion Genie had whipped up last minute...

"This!" His lurched towards his own appetizer. "Is a papaya salad, with thai style crap and shrimp, to start. The idea behind Nevertheless was to create comfort food on an international level. This salad is foreign to some, incredibly familiar to more, and hopefully comforting for all."

A table behind the judges, Stan let out a loud laugh. "Riveting. Now tell them how you get the dressing on it." 

"Anyway," Andy rolled his eyes. "This is a trio of pupusas, all with blue corn and stuffed with traditional fillings. The first is queso and frijoles, the second queso and chicharron, which I made, and the third is queso and loroco, which was made by Caroline."

"Hey!" Nick's voice was too loud to ignore. "Hey, Grigor! He said these were stuffed." Andy watched in side-eyed horror, chin tucked to his chest, as Nick slurred his sentences and waved a pupusa in front of Grigor's face. "Jealous?"

Andy turned his attention back to the judges' table, the hollow of his cheeks tinting a deep crimson. "This is, ugh," he felt the heat build in his forehead, "um - this is a classic paella made by Genie, meant to share amongst the table. And to finish, Caroline has created a classic beignet and-"

"Then which one of you does the stuffing?!" Nick's voice rung out. Andy's pupils blew open wide, his eyes ricocheted from Nick to the judges to the beignets in mild panic. 

"And the," he tried to remember what he was saying, "beignet is umm... It was..."

He couldn't keep his eyes off the rowdy drunks at the table behind the judges. Stan couldn't stop himself from laughing hysterically, head tipped back while he managed to balance his glass of sgroppino on his forehead. Nick was in the middle of forcing a pupusa into an empty water glass to pantomime a crude joke. Grigor looked up to Andy, eyes wide saucers as he mouthed "I'm sorry" and pointed to the booze on Stan's head. The judges stared at Andy, holding their breath until he could recover.

Grigor's eyes narrowed on Andy, he shook his glass flute and pointed at the yellow beverage inside, waiting for Andy to react. 

"Sgroppino!" Grigor finally yelled.

"Is that what you call it?" Nick could barely get the line out without laughter. Grigor turned to him with eyes suddenly ignited. He'd been pushed past his breaking point.

"It's not gay, it's fucking Italian!" Grigor splashed an entire glass of the liquor in Nick's face. Stan's laughter erupted, the entire restaurant paused to gawk behind their menus. 

Andy clapped his hands to draw the judges' attention. "Right! Sorry, I almost forgot. To reset the palette with such diverse dishes, we also concocted a homemade sgroppino. Please enjoy between dishes. Though I recommend these," he pushed a small tumbler towards Venus, "over a full champagne flute with each course."

Tom lifted an eyebrow. "Sounds like your fellow chefs at the other table disagree with that recommendation."

"Yes," Rafa smiled up at Andy. "They maybe distract you a little tonight?"

Andy pulled at his collar, his shirt clinging to his body. 

"A little, yeah," he released his stress in a self-conscious chuckle. "I'm used to one of them distracting me, though."

"Oh," Venus grinned as she dumped spoonfuls of paella on her plate. "Believe me, we know."

Andy's cheeks darkened again, his scalp itched.

Tom shoveled a forkful of papaya salad into this mouth directly from the serving dish. "Doll, you're making him blush." 

"I wonder, Andy," Gustavo pointed at the spread. "Can you put your heart into a dish today, truly? If your team wins, means your, um..." he thought hard on his next word, "namorado, yes? He could go home. For your team to win, he must lose. A conflict of the heart."

Venus and Rafa nodded with grave faces and swiveled to face Andy. He opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. He pointed at his dish and tried to think of something witty. 

"Good work tonight, Andy." Tom interrupted before the chef could say something stupid. He pulled a pupusa off a larger platter and cut into it. "Good work by your whole team. Go relax back in the kitchen."

 _Thank fuck_. Andy backpedaled from the overstuffed table. Behind them, drunk Stan used his empty tumbler as a monocle while Nick sucked the booze off his own collar. Grigor wiggled his sgroppino glass and grinned at Andy, oblivious to Gustavo's question, distracted by his belligerent teammates. 

Andy retreated to the kitchen to let the ladies know they'd survived the night. He didn't need to let them know he'd just served the judges an accidental side dish of his personal sex life. Or that Gustavo Kuerten had given Andy some food for thought. He did need to find the sgroppino.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're back! And back with (semi) regular updates ready to go. Encouragement is (always) encouraged!


	10. Episode Six - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> RESTAURANT WARS.
> 
> Stan, Grigor, and Nick open a competing restaurant. The light at the end of the tunnel might just be a truck.

New Fashioned was decidedly that. Millennial pink walls with images of flaming hearts and pineapples and stray hipster iconography decorating the walls, dark black brush strokes that had barely dried by the time Andy, Caroline, and Genie were allowed in. 

The place was already packed by the time they slipped past security. Andy was stunned to see how different the space felt, entirely unrecognizable as the restaurant he had created with Genie and Caroline. He was surprised at how different it felt from even a few hours ago, when they ducked into the kitchen to rib Nick, Stan, and Grigor before the dinner rush.

Back then, they'd walked into a kitchen collapsing in on itself. Andy pushed through the swinging doors, his mind immediately ticking off a list of red flags. Nick wandering the kitchen in improper attire. A gigantic pan full of melted butter burning on the stovetop. A pile of chopped vegetables abandoned on a table. 

Grigor leaned on Andy. Peach juice scented the air, dripped from his fingers as he gripped the Scot's shoulders. 

"They are both just. So. Fucking. Hungover." Grigor picked his head up to look Andy in the eyes. "Was this your plan all along?"

"I wish!" Andy let his laugh out in earnest. "After that display at our restaurant last night, serves the bastards right." 

Grigor squeezed tighter, fingers that had been tearing through soft produce now digging into Andy's tender rotator cuffs. 

"I cannot go home for," he flailed an arm behind him, "this."

Andy peered over Grigor's shoulder. Caroline was rubbing Nick's back. Genie appeared to be nonchalantly chewing on a piece of rhubarb while Stan leaned his weight against a cold refrigerator, wilted.

"Fuck those guys," Andy said. He pulled Grigor towards him, nuzzling his head between the younger man's shoulder and neck. "Plus, if they fuck it up you're not going to fry. You'll live to see another day." He shifted his hips, pressing them flush against Grigor's.

"Or another night."

"Not," Grigor pulled away, a stiff arm making room between them, "the time, Andy. C'mon. I have to fix this." Grigor turned back towards his table.

Andy couldn't shake the feeling that Grigor had been avoiding him for days now. Keeping him at arm's length and refusing to give an explanation. He watched as Grigor busied himself. He chopped into a peach so forcefully that the blade reverberated against the hardened core, sliced it into quarters, and half heartedly dropped it into another bowl.

"How can I help?" Andy found his voice, found his intention. "With... everything." 

Grigor released a breath, grateful Andy wasn't going to press him further. "Can you make them less hungover off your damn sgroppino?"

Andy perked up, his eyes wrinkling with a tentative smile. "Honestly? Not even if I wanted to."

"Fine." Grigor's shoulders relaxed. "Can you hand me some of that clarified butter?"

Andy scanned the table and handed a jar to Grigor. "Hey, just so you know, I'll-"

"Hey guys," Juan butted in, a heavy camera on his shoulder. "Sorry to interrupt."

"You're really not," Andy said.

Juan Martin frowned and turned towards Grigor. "Again, that was really very sweet. You two make great scenes. But it's not just clarified butter. We need you to say "Bulletproof Ghee" for the next shot. Yeah?"

Andy resisted the urge to kick an orange wrapped tub of ghee butter across the floor. Juan's attempt at branding, and product placement, bristled against Andy entirely.

"Sure, sure," Grigor said. Something in the hunch of his shoulders, the eagerness in his voice, sounded an alarm in Andy's mind.

"Since when are you ok repeating scenes for the sake of a camera?" Andy was incredulous. Grigor had nearly eaten Juan alive when he'd barged into their cabin back on the coast outside of the Nautica. 

"Since," Grigor hissed through clenched teeth, "I need to survive Restaurant Wars and since I've become a big fan. Of Bulletproof. Fucking branded. Ghee!" 

He held up the orange tub, shaking in a clenched fist.

"Right," Juan gripped his camera. "Like that, but less angsty. Once more."

-

The pink and black hot spot they wandered into was a room transformed. Andy was even more surprised to see the host of New Fashioned. Normally wrist deep in pasta sauce or smelling like pork scraps, the sight of Grigor in a fitted suit jacket robbed Andy of his breath. He hated himself for being so shallow, eyes lingering on the hard lines of his shoulders, following the pearly white buttons of his shirt until they disappeared into a pair of black pants tailored to cling to just the right places.

Whatever was weighing on the Bulgarian earlier seemed to have evaporated, his wide grin stretching the planes of his cheeks, suddenly enthralled with the way Andy looked at him.

"Wow."

"Welcome to New Fashioned," Grigor said, fiddling with menus and trying not to blush under Andy's gaze.

"Wow," Andy couldn't stop himself, voice heavy.

"I demand service!" Genie banged her palm on the host's station.

Grigor looked past Andy at Genie and Caroline. "So glad you're here."

"Uh huh," Genie said. "Less eye sex and more getting me a table."

Caroline relaxed into her chair. She stared at their black and white chevron table and huffed as soon as Grigor was out of earshot.

"Could this place be trying any harder?"

Andy looked around the room. Their restaurant, Nevertheless, had been a success. But this place - New Fashioned - had a distinctly different vibe. Hip kids dressed in bermuda shirts and black shift dresses and 1980s Umbro gear lingered around the bar. Online influencers in smart glasses told jokes to each other in booths, falsely modest turtlenecks clinging to their frames. The entire place felt designed to be Instagramed.

"Ick, indeed," Genie said. "It's like they found a way to bring an e-cigarette to life. They should've just named it Douche Vape."

"Jesus, it's just a little pink. It looks good." Andy downed his water glass. "Oh, sangria!" 

He flagged the waiter wandering with a pitcher of something alcoholic and red. He made a circular motion with his hand, indicating their entire table would need a glass. 

The waiter studied the three of them. Clearly the least hip people invited to the restaurant opening, Andy's polo and Genie's bun and Caroline's tennis shoes giving them away piece by piece.

The waiter grabbed Genie's glass from the table. "It's a house wine. Fortified with Grand Marnier and accented with orange, lemon, and strawberries."

Andy circled his hand twice more, hopeful to somehow get his drink faster. Genie fiddled with her apparently offensive bun.

"Whatever. Wine with fruit in it sure sounds like sangria." She watched the waiter fill each of their stemless wineglasses to the brim, bright chunks of orange falling and splashing into each glass.

She sipped her wine and, unable to think of anything mean to say at first taste, slammed it back onto the table.

"Dammit, it's pretty good."

Andy swirled his glass. "And that's... bad?" 

"Yes, Andy," Genie said. "Why are you so obsessed with defending them? I mean, obviously you and Grigor, but whatever. This is a competition. It's Top Chef. Not America's Nicest Boyfriend."

"I'm not defending, I'm just... Nice try!" Andy smiled at the cameras quietly angled in their direction, hopeful to capture a piece of drama. 

He fished a strawberry out of his wine and chomped it to pieces, choosing his words carefully. 

"Whatever part of Boyo that I beat is genuinely not your problem. And I'm not defending them. Honestly, I don't think I can do anything to save them at this point."

Genie and Caroline surveyed the dining room. Past the cool kid trappings, past the gold cutlery and the pink-bulb lighting, there was something off about the place. The patrons looked fine, happy to be there even, each holding a generous glass of wine. Some picked at a deep salad bowl, others had pushed theirs to the center of the table after licking it clean. The same white bowl littered each table. Every table, as if part of the decor.

Caroline's fingers tapped along the tabletop, selfish glee tangled in empathetic panic as she looked at the bowl on one table after another. The front of the house looked beautiful, but a trained eye quickly spotted the problem. The back of the house was backed up, not a single table had gotten more than a starter salad.

Genie grinned as she looked from table to table, her bun taking a life of it's own as it wobbled behind her. Andy took another sip of his wine. It was strong, sweet, strangely satisfying. "It's going to take a lifetime to get our dinner. Might as well enjoy the ambiance."

-

Gustavo looked back and forth between the other judges. The last remaining guests at New Fashioned, their black and white table was cluttered with empty dishes and pitcher's of wine.

"You eat with your eyes first. Aesthetically, it was a masterpiece." 

Tom couldn't contain his laughter. "Sure you do, Guga. But unfortunately I eat with my mouth next and - oh, man - this was a slow motion disaster tonight."

"I disagree," Venus said, a glass of fortified wine still in front of her. "The timing could not have been worse. Clearly the kitchen wasn't prepared for the dinner rush, but the food itself wasn't bad. The opposite, really."

Ava perked up. "Agreed! Grigor's grilled peach salad with that thinly shaved ham. If you're going to leave a table with one dish all night, that's the one."

"That's even worse!" Rafa pounded his palm on the table in staccato beats. "Worse! They have strong start. Beautiful place, beautiful people, beautiful first dish. Then ... nothing. For too long."

"Right!" Tom pointed to Rafa. "Thank you! It's culinary blue balls. The first impression seduced us, and then we're left waiting the rest of the night for something to really blow our minds and it just never happened. They fizzled out, and took too long doing it."

The judges always argued for the sake of the cameras, but for the first time this season they were genuinely deadlocked. Nevertheless had a less coherent menu, a duller atmosphere, but still hit the bullseye with their food. New Fashioned may have been the place to be seen, but guests had to overstay their welcome if they wanted a full meal in the night. 

Head to head, Andy couldn't match Grigor's charm as the front of the house, but his service was faster, his kitchen was more prepared. They'd both made a fruit based salad to start the meal and, to the shock of the judges, it was Grigor's ability to balance the grilled peaches and ham that won their vote over Andy's too safe papaya salad. Both team's had sturdy if not spectacular main dishes to anchor their menus, Genie's paella being a safe bet and an easy dish to make ahead of time when serving a full restaurant. Stan's salmon and ratatouille was low risk, but executed well. 

Caroline's beignets were a hit! But the menu the judges first saw distinctly advertised donut holes. The beignets were actually a smarter choice, but a sign of a chef who hadn't thought through her dish before creating a menu. Even worse, Stan's buttermilk cake with miso-butterscotch sauce was still a better dessert. 

And while Nick's fortified wine easily surpassed Genie's sgroppino, his biscuits with cinnamon butter seemed unforgivable next to Andy and Caroline's savory and balanced pupusas.

"What happened there?" Rafa looked to the other judges. "Nick make that butter. The flavor of the cinnamon was washed away by the smoke. Was terrible."

"It wasn't smokey, it was burnt," Ava said. "He totally screwed that one up. And we saw him do something similar, so much better, a few challenges ago at the ballpark. So disappointing."

"It's funny," Venus was not laughing, "now that you mention it. At a ballpark with limited tools, he had no problem making that bacon butter. But here, for no real reason..."

"Some reason, obviously." Tom pantomimed taking a shot. "Glug, glug. All three of those boys enjoyed the sgroppino last night."

"So, what happened?" Gustavo looked to the long term judges for clarity. "He just has a hangover and forgets how to cook? He sabotages himself?"

Venus snapped her head towards Tom, grip tight against her glass. "He threw the game!"

Rafa shook his head. "That makes no sense. His talent. His ability. Why go this far, try this hard, to - how you say - to sandbag?"

-

"Ew, of course you live in Philly," Caroline said. She sat on a fold out chair in the back of New Fashioned. Or the remnants of New Fashioned that still lingered as stage hands tore down the decorations and and returned the walls to blank space. 

Her voice was loud enough for the other five chefs to hear, but when she thought they were all looking away she grabbed a pen and scribbled down her phone number. Nick lived in Philadelphia, a short train ride from her place in Rehoboth Beach. She loathed Philly, and reminded herself that she couldn't stand Nick, before palming a piece of paper into his hand and squeezing it.

Nick couldn't wipe the grin from his face. He stared forward, his large palm eclipsing hers, the scent of sweaty boy and warm butter reinforcing each of Caroline’s conflicting emotions.

"Admit it," he said. "You love to hate me."

"You're halfway there," she said. 

Nick kissed the top of her head, for the first time finding the courage to express anything other than contempt in front of the other chefs. He inhaled deeply, the humdrum smell of her shampoo suddenly igniting his senses.

"You're so stupid," Caroline said. "I mean it."

Nick pulled himself away from her. "I was never going to win anyway. It's better this way." He tucked the paper into his pocket. "I'm not into the TV thing. It's so retro."

He grinned again. "Shit's old school. Have you ever heard of the internet? Any chef that makes it too deep on a TV show is obviously a giant loser."

The other chefs pretended to ignore them while straining to hear every single word. Even Stan smiled to himself. He sucked down another glass of wine, figured getting drunk again might help him finally shake the hangover he'd been nursing. He leaned his weight on a card table and downed the rest of his drink. Aside from the occasional shoulder pat from Genie, he found himself alone in the competition. At his most powerful, his most dangerous. Genie busied herself with an old US Weekly she'd found in the dining room and tried to ignore her fellow chefs.

Grigor rested his forehead on Andy's shoulder, their chairs pressed side by side. He still wore a white button up, top buttons undone and tie slack around his neck. He resembled a Disney Prince come undone, his short hair barely slicked back as he breathed into the nape of Andy's neck.

"That's quite the sigh, boyo."

Grigor lifted his head. "I live in Chicago."

Andy nodded, knowing instantly where this conversation was going. "You're not going home tonight. I'm sure as hell not going home tonight. So shut it."

Grigor twice more tried to bring it up, Andy squeezing his hand the first time and sticking two fingers in Grigor's mouth when he tried to speak the second time. Whatever the judges decided, Andy was positive they would spend another night beside each other.

"But." Grigor clamped a hand over his mouth when he saw Andy's fingers twitch.

"But," he said, muffed through his own hand. "Eventually, I'm going to-. One of us..."

He dropped his hand from his mouth and shifted in his chair to meet Andy eye to eye. His gaze lingered on his own knees until he found the words.

"Someone has to win this show, Andy. And after they do, we'll all go back home. And then you and I will..."

Andy grinned. "I'm sorry, I know you're really trying right now but you look like a little candy groom." Grigor stared at the ceiling, hands clenched into balls. 

"A respectable and existential candy groom, I should add."

"Nice recovery," Grigor said. He exhaled, hands unfurling.

"So you live in Chicago? I'm in New York. Brooklyn, to be specific."

"Ok." Grigor nodded. New York wasn't a world away. Just a time zone. And a flight. And 1,200 kilometers. He kept nodding as new ways to imagine distance sprung up in his brain. 1,2000 kilometers could practically get him from Sofia all the way to Prague.

"Don't freak out!" Andy waved a had in front of Grigor's face. "No no no, we're good. I go to Chicago a lot and it's a short flight if you want to visit and maybe," Andy looked around the room. He didn't want to jinx himself but couldn't stand to see the mild panic growing in Grigor's eyes. He pulled at the hair on the back of his head before deciding to take his swing.

"Look," he rested a hand on Grigor's knee, anxious. "Ok, look. One of us is going to win this. I have a real shot. And if I can do it, if I can reopen Hey Judy... Well, I need a whole new staff. Front of house. Head chef. Everything. And I don't," he found Grigor's eyes and finally managed to hold his gaze, finally managed to get on the same page for just a moment.

"And I don't think I could do it alone, so. So maybe, I don't have to?"

-

Andy had nearly fallen asleep in his fold out chair by the time Maria got to him. The other chefs had done their interviews, one-by-one, and been allowed to head back to the penthouse for the evening.

Nick's exit interview had taken the longest. Venus, in particular, was reluctant to say goodbye to the young phenom. At judges' panel, she'd plainly and clearly told him to pack his knives and go. An attempt to to dismiss Nick and his talent as quickly as possible without giving herself time to regret it.

He thanked her politely, grabbed his canvas roll, and left the room without another word. His reticence was almost disturbing, he simply waved to the remaining chefs and disappeared behind a heavy curtain.

His exit interview stretched on. Producers pelted him with questions, was he disappointed in himself, was Caroline worth the sacrifice, would he regret his impulsive decision in a week? 

Andy, Genie, Caroline, Grigor, and Stan began to feel like they would grow mold. The sat in silence and waited for Nick to leave the building. He was eventually escorted out by security hours later, when the judges re-emerged. Venus, Tom, Rafa, and Ava walked into the backroom where the remaining chefs paced the room. 

Stan was the first to notice something was off. The judges were lined up too formal, standing together in a camera-friendly formation. He perked up in his chair, eyes locked on Tom Colichio.

"What's going on?"

"Chefs," Venus took the lead, her soft voice setting everyone on edge. "We're sad to see Nick go today. But, unfortunately, we're not done."

She tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. She was exhausted, maybe wine drunk, and was about to lead a double-elimination ambush against a group of unexpecting chefs.

The remaining contestants sprung to their feet, suddenly alert. They lined up, standing at attention like some sort of sloppy army. The Von Trapp Family Chefs, all twitching fingers and sideways glances.

"I'm sorry," Venus said, her voice heavy and honest. "While we agree Nick was the right choice, another person here just didn't do enough tonight."

She scanned their faces, tired eyes and grease-stained cheeks lined up to greet her. Her expression on TV was always steadfast, always crisp and professional. Now, late into the evening, her eyes finally betrayed Venus. She was spent. She was a reluctant executioner. But she remained a professional.

"I'm sorry. Caroline. Please pack your knives and go."

Her exit interview hadn't taken nearly as long. Caroline yelled during her confessional, saving a special ire for Maria in particular. Her elimination didn't seem to insult Caroline. The decision to eliminate Nick first drove her to hysterics. 

Genie, the last remaining woman in the competition, sat with Maria next. Grigor followed, leaving time for Stan and Andy to sit in the empty backroom and pretend the other was dead. They were both excellent chefs, but throughout the competition they'd also sharpened their acting skills. 

Finally Juan walked into the kitchen to fetch Andy and Stan for the last interview of the night. Andy slumped onto the stool and closed his eyes as an assistant repositioned the spotlight they always shined in his eyes. Stan shifted uncomfortably, not used to doing joint interviews.

"You know the drill," Maria herself sounded drained. "Look at the camera, not me. So - how're you feeling."

"Tired as shit," Andy muttered, eyes still closed.

She blinked slowly, held her clipboard to her chest. "Please, God, Andy. We all just want to go home. Don't be a twat."

"Language," he chided her, too tired to sit up. Maria turned to Stan, her eyes pleading.

"Ok," Stan said. "How am I feeling? I'm feeling good. Maybe a little disappointed our team didn't officially win Restaurant Wars, but I feel good. Genie deserved her win today. Or should I say yesterday? Oh god, it's after midnight, so two days ago?"

Maria leaned against a wall. "Don't worry about it. Andy, you go."

Andy opened his eyes, glared sidelong at Stan.

"I'm up." He took a moment to sit up properly and adjust to the bright lighting. 

"How am I feeling? I'm... sad. We lost two good people today. But personally, life is shaping up all the sudden. And, yeah, I wasn't expecting that. I wasn't even thinking about what comes after all this. I've just been thinking about the show, challenge by challenge, and somehow I've lucked into something bigger and... I don't know. But I know I like it."

Maria looked at the camera man for confirmation, then back to Andy.

"Do you mean Grigor? Or do you think you're going to win the competition?"

"Both. I feel like I'm competing at a very high level currently. And Grigor is... Not what I came here for. But if you try sometimes, you just might find you get what you need, right?"

Maria tilted her head to the side, finger pressed against her headset.

"Ok, we can't use the last bit because the Rolling Stones are crazy litigious but the rest works." She gave Andy two thumbs up, even those seemed weary.

"Good luck with that, by the way," she said. "Here's hoping it works out better for you than for me."

Andy was again fully awake, sitting straight up on his stool and tearing his stare away from the camera to face Maria. "What is that - what do you mean? You mean you-"

"Don't worry about it!" Maria clearly regretted her slip. She mustered the energy to push herself off the wall. "Just, hush, Andy. Now, Stan - how're you feeling about your chances for the final?"

Andy stood from his chair. "No I won't hush! What the hell are you talking about?"

Stan buried a laugh into his forearm, Maria didn't bother acknowledging Andy.

"Stan," she said. Andy waved his arms to draw her attention, suddenly realizing she was turning the screws on both of them in one interview.

"How do you feel about your chances to reach the final?"

"Great," he smiled towards Andy, remembered to look back towards the camera. "I'm feeling great. I'm excited."

"Perfect," Maria said. "Are you at all worried about Last Chance Kitchen?"

Andy sat back down. "Last Chance.. as in, they're coming back?"

"No," Maria's smile crawled across her face. "Not all of them. Just one. The eliminated chefs all get a chance to come back. One chef wins the right to rejoin the competition for the final."

Andy's eyes widened. He gripped the underside of the stool, unsure what to say. Stan's color faded to a sickly shade of white, as if he'd been visited by a ghost. He stared into the camera with a vacant, exhausted expression, his mouth clamped shut. He knew who was bound to come back.

"So," Maria clapped her hands. "Both of you. Again. Tell me how excited you are about nearing the finals!"


	11. Episode Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andy and Maria don't exactly bond over their common ground. Stan and Genie discover branding.

Andy reached into an ice chest, digging past his elbow before emerging with a can. The rolled up sleeve of his white coat dripped as he inspected the can.

"Alright, who wants a," he studied the font on the white can, "hard seltzer, apparently? It's like a spritzer in a can."

Stan raised his hand. Genie stared at Andy for a moment, weighing her options and tapping her fingers on the fold out table where the remaining contestants waited for producers to fetch them for the next challenge.

"You're seriously having a white wine spritzer at 11am?"

Andy tossed a can to Stan, reached into the cooler and retrieved another for himself.

"Well it's a little warm out for red wine, Genie," he said. The crisp sound of punctured aluminum washed out her sigh.

She cocked her hip and held out her hand. "Fine. Me, too."

Andy wagged an eyebrow before reaching back into the cooler. With only four chefs left in the competition - Andy, Stan, Genie, and Grigor - the pressure of the competition was finally giving way to the excitement of potentially winning the title of Top Chef. Four contestants would compete in the final challenge, including the chef that returns to the competition by winning Last Chance Kitchen. It didn't take the remaining chefs long to figure out this week would be their last challenge before reaching the finale.

For all her incredulity at Andy's daytime drinking, Genie was actually wrapping her head around this morning's easy Quick Fire victory and trying not to get too worked up for the main challenge. The four chefs had been randomly assigned beverages and tasked with creating dishes that paired perfectly. Genie's salmon crudo with grilled pineapple - paired with sake (brought to you by Dassai!) was the clear stand out. Andy's salmon fillet with mango salsa paired well with a citrus-y Bell's Oberon, but failed to outshine Genie. Stan's grilled pork tenderloin may have been the best pairing with the Tequila Ocho Reposado if he'd executed the dish properly, but his slightly undercooked tenderloin left him stranded.

Grigor paired a chardonnay with shrimp risotto. Genie called it "Top Chef suicide" on par with making scallops. The two dishes had a notorious history of sending home even the most talented chefs, and Grigor had rushed into it with the tenderness of a purse snatcher. The judges weren't impressed with the dish, but they all agreed to make dramatic frowny faces and squish into frame for Grigor to snap off a series of selfies. Pouty lipped Venus, clutching a mock horrified Rafa, had a way of making the Quick Fire loss feel like it's own type of victory.

Grigor pushed the door of their waiting room open, his cell phone camera trained on Genie before panning to Stan, Andy, and the ice chest.

"And look," he spoke into the end of his cell phone and waved at Andy until the Scot reluctantly waved back, "just to the front of the room... Here we have two human males in their natural habitat. Human males often drink from coolers in excess."

Andy flashed a quick V with one hand and raised a hard seltzer to his lips with the other. Grigor tucked his phone into the front pocket of his coat, still smeared with olive oil and chopped bits of shrimp.

Andy pressed a kiss into his temple. "You're suddenly cheery."

Grigor leaned down to kiss Andy's shoulder, mock biting at his collar bone. "Yeah. I umm... I've been a little moody lately. But, ya know, why waste our time together?"

The scrunched expression on Andy's face was enough to send Genie and Stan to the other side of the room. Both immediately plucked chairs from around the fold-out table and dashed for the corner muttering about lighting or alone time or any excuse to get away.

"What?" Andy's brow was still furrowed. "We have plenty of time together. We've got another challenge. Finals. And then..." 

And then they hadn't exactly talked about what came after that, but Andy had quietly begun to assume Grigor was considering a move to New York. Or at least Caroline had led him to believe as much. Fucking Caroline...

Grigor opened his mouth to speak before suddenly snapping it shut. He fished his phone out of his pocket and aimed it at Andy.

"Disgruntled, with a can full of liquor. Perhaps his actual natural habitat."

"I'm serious." Andy looked at Grigor's camera, then turned towards a television camera mounted to the corner of the room. "What do you know that I don't, producers? What do you know?"

Andy turned to Grigor, who clutched his phone in one hand and stared at the floor. His sunny facade evaporated.

"Hey," Andy spoke in a hushed whisper. "Does this have anything to do with Maria?"

Grigor's eyes darted around the room, managing to find every camera focused on them. He could almost hear the lenses zooming in, the sensitivity of the boom mics ratcheting up a notch to overhear their whispers.

Andy nodded to himself. His grip relaxing on Grigor's wrist and instead intertwining their fingers together.

"I know." Andy stayed as quiet and calm as possible, blood pumping in his brain. He was never the jealous type and promised himself it wouldn't start now. 

"I know, about you and ... her. If she's threatening you with that, don't worry. It won't change the fact that I," Andy caught himself, his sharp intake of breath leaving the sentence unfinished.

Grigor wriggled free of Andy's fingers and turned his attention back to his phone, pecking at the screen and swiping through images before handing it over to Andy.

He didn't bother saying anything, just held out his phone until Andy lifted it from his palm. His eyes flitted between Andy and the television cameras around them.

Andy instinctively kept the phone close to his chest and lowered his head, using one hand to block the screen from Genie and Stan if they dared look over. He craned his neck and stared at the screen, a shaky finger pressing down on the grey triangle.

He made it less than a second into the video before jamming his thumb against the side of the phone, trying to block the speaker with one hand while dialing down the volume with the other. Andy choked on his own breath as he heard the audio, the sound of his voice reeling off inspired and filthy affirmations over grainy video of the two of them intertwined in their bed back in the cabins outside of the Nautica.

"That's fucking illegal! We have contracts!" Andy pushed the phone into Grigor's hands. He mashed the palm of his hand into his eye, as if he could crush the knowledge out of his own mind. 

"Shhh!" Grigor stared at Andy with wide eyes. Stan and Genie spent all their effort not looking at the two of them.

Andy plucked his can of hard seltzer off the table and chugged it. Grigor dropped his phone back into his pocket. 

"She's going to send it to my mom. I just.... Andy, it's just easier to give her what she wants. I'm not going to win this. You are. So let's just have fun for a few more hours. Yeah?"

Grigor tried to smile. Andy considered storming into the confession booth to let Maria know exactly how he felt about her, considered quitting on the spot. But he was too close now, just two challenges away. The re-opening of Hey Judy, the ressurecction of Andy's career, and possibly the source of both of their future incomes depended on Andy winning.

Andy reached back into the ice chest, angry and at a loss for words.

He held a drink out to Grigor, grabbed one for himself, and bashed their cans together artlessly. "Well... fuck. Cheers, mate."

Confronting Maria or the judges directly wouldn't help them. As he guzzled down a second seltzer, his mind raced. No, saving him couldn't directly involve Grigor, either. Andy would have to do it without anyone - including his boyfriend - trying to stop him.

"Gimme your phone," he said, arm already outstretched.

"I can hear you thinking." Grigor slid the phone into Andy's hand, hesitant to let go of his most important instrument. "Your bad ideas are very loud."

Andy pulled at Grigor's coat, grabbing a fistful of fabric and yanking it forward until their lips met. He was urgent, excited, and desperate to ensure neither Grigor nor the cameras caught the gentle flick of his thumb as it flipped the camera mode from Photo to Video.

Stan and Genie pretended not to listen as Andy had opened his second round of drinks. They'd spent the last few minutes whispering about the two men's whispers, then trying to distract themselves with half-hearted conversation.

"I kind of like them together," Genie said, her knee bouncing between both of Stan's as they sat face to face. "In that man-child meets quippy grouch sort of way."

"Eh." Stan lifted his shoulders up and dropped them back down. "I've known Andy a long time. It's one thing when you're on a show together all the time. But back home, between his brother and his Scotch eggs, he has no time for boyfriend."

Genie fiddled with the aluminum tab on her can of seltzer, lifting it up and down until it was weak enough to pull off the can. She flicked it at Stan.

"You know," she said, "you're never winning Miss Congeniality with lines like that."

Stan caught the tab, dropped it into his own can and took a defiant sip. 

"People like me. I'm funny. That thing with Andy, that was funny."

"That was funny?" Genie tried not to smile. "That was psychotic. You're totally this season's villain."

Stan frowned, then turned to a nearby camera and crushed his empty seltzer can in one hand.

"There. They can use that in my villain edit. And what of you? Your most memorable moments is you throwing someone else's food."

Genie turned her can over in her hand, considered crushing it against her head before deciding it would never work. "Yeah, well. I've won some challenges. ... I'm cute."

Stan let a corner of his mouth curl up into a smile. "A nip slip from internet fame, sure. But no Mister Congeniality. Neither of us."

It's Miss Congeniality, Genie wanted to remind him. And she could definitely win it. But it was a consolation prize for someone who didn't clinch the actual Top Chef title, which meant she had no interest in it. Still, if she was crowned Top Chef, she sure wouldn't mind being a fan-favorite Top Chef.

Genie and Stan tried to resist watching Andy and Grigor play fight, Grigor struggling to wrestle his deactivated phone from Andy's pockets.

Grigor laughed hysterically, Andy's hands swatting him away. "C'mon, boyo. It's too late. You can't put the shit back in the horse!"

Andy screwed his face up in disgust and Genie snapped her attention back to Stan.

"That!" She pointed at them. "We need catch phrases like that. People looove catch phrases. The internet is all about them."

Stan shook his head. English wasn't his first language, and he had no interest in repeating himself for the cameras. Or worse, being tagged with a phrase that reporters asked him to say at press conference or guests wanted him to yell when cooking dinner. 

"No," he said. "No 'BAM' or 'Ka-bluey' or whatever you must say."

"No!" Genie pushed him back into his chair. "No, something clever like-like, ummm... Choke on that! Or, like, Bite Me, or something."

Stan shook his head, his sandy hair a blur of disagreement. "No. Those are terrible. So aggressive. Maybe something friendly. Hot looking, good cooking. Yeah?"

"Noooooooo," Genie held Stan by the shoulders and shook him with both hands. "Please never say that to anyone ever again. What about, fresh dishes for you bishes?"

Stan blinked repeatedly. "That's English?"

-

Noodles. Easy enough, which is what made them so difficult a task. In a distinctly un-Top Chef style move, Venus had given the chef-testants an entire day to make a dish with noodles as a main ingredient - and serve it to nearly 100 restaurant owners and guests who were attending a nearby Ramen franchise convention. No high brow tricks could save them against the room full of experts.

Fortunately, high brow was never Grigor's bread and butter. Andy tapped his foot impatiently as Grigor attempted to wow him with his juggling skills, pulling three frozen balls of dough from the freezer and tossing them into the air. His eyes bounced between the plastic wrapped dough balls and Andy's face, trying to catch a smile each time he tossed another boulder of dough.

"-and she wasn't having it but - Hey!" Andy tried waving a hand in front of Grigor. "Hey! Boyo. This is serious. These dishes have to be perfect."

"Ya huh." Grigor focused on catching each of the flying dough balls before placing them on the table and spreading his arms wide. "Ta-dah, by the way!"

"Very impressive," Andy said, he clapped two dry hands together. "What is it?"

"It's about to be Trahana with kashkaval cheese. It's super traditional, my mom can make it in her sleep. And you," Grigor pointed to a stove behind him and dropped his voice to a whisper, "are making a buttery spaghetti squash dish. You're welcome." He glanced around to be sure the cameras were far enough away.

Normally Andy would rather drown himself than let someone else start his dish, but he'd already missed out on valuable cooking time. He'd instead barged into Maria's makeshift confessional tent, intent on striking a bargain that'd make Faust think twice. 

"I'll let him have one free shot. Right at the jaw," Andy said as Maria shook her head. A media friendly fight with Stan would mean great ratings for their finale. Think of the boxing related promos the network could run! 

Maria immediately rejected the idea of violence on the show. A contestant slicing her fingers was good drama, but a Swiss throwing a punch was beyond the pale. He racked his brain, spewing a string of unpolished thoughts before finally offering to cut her in on the re-opening of his new restaurant.

"Come on," he forced a tentative smile. "First rights, yeah? If I win, I'm reopening Hey Judy and I'll let the network make it a special. Hell, a whole mini-series. Think about the... ugh, what do you think about? Sponsorships! Think about the sponsorships you could get. For a grand opening even. Come on, Maria."

"One," she jotted something down on her clipboard and hugged it close to her stomach while addressing Andy, "that's IF you win. Which," she peered down to her clipboard and back to Andy as if he would try to grab it from her, "is not anything close to a guarantee. And two - I'm pretty sure I've got the 'grand opening' I need."

"It's illegal," he said. Andy was done with offers. He stared at her, his gaze hardened and voice firm. "And I will prosecute."

"What is?" she said it with near perfect inflection, a studied look of confusion washing over her stark features. "I'm not sure I know what you mean, Andy. I'm definitely not about to share anything illegal. And if something leaked to a family member of a contestant, well I'm sure that very traditional Eastern European woman wouldn't want to share it with anyone else. Especially the media. Right, Andy?"

"No, Maria, I'm not sure. You threatened him. You threatened him with what was honestly a pretty beautiful moment. My beautiful moment. What do I have to possibly give you to have it back? To remember is at something shared between the two of us?"

Her eyes burned as she stared at Andy. "Don't you think it was a little too easy, Andy? When's the last time somebody just wanted you like that, just showed up out of the blue and flirted with you and fit into your life so perfectly? It's astounding, really, what people will believe. Just as astounding as what other people will do, who they'll hitch their wagon to, for a little fame."

Andy sucked on his bottom lip, his face hot as he tried to swallow his words. Maria was a cornered animal and he knew it, she was lashing out. Her barbed words were desperate flails, he told himself.

He squinted in her direction, the sound of his blood bumping in waves drowning out everything around him. "Is that what happened," Andy hissed. "You think Grigor used you and now you want revenge?"

Maria gripped her clipboard so tight the plywood creaked. "Yes," she said. "You shouldn't trust him. Either way, he's going to get what he deserves."

Andy sighed, his chest unclenching. He looked down as his hand plunged into his front pocket. He retrieved Grigor's phone, tiny red light blinking. Paused the video and dropped the phone back into his pocket.

"That sounds like intent to misuse company assets and leak classified footage to me. I would think twice about going through with it."

He patted his pocket. Maria's plywood creaked louder, bowed in stress. Andy grinned.

"I'll show myself the door."

-

Genie approached the judges with a red bowl clutched in both hands, steam rising from the broth and reaching their noses as waiters set down identical bowls for the entire table. 

"I made Asian style cumin lamb noodles in a spiced vegetable stock broth," she said. Her voice was measured and calm as she rested her bowl in front of Tom. She pointed at him and tried to look serious. "And - You. Will. Like. It."

She winked at him and backed away, never breaking eye contact until she rejoined the other chefs standing a few tables away. Stan clapped her on the back.

"That was not bad! Aggressive catch phrase, but not bad."

Andy was unable to hide the fact that he was entirely baffled. 

"What the fuck was that? Did you just threaten them with noodles?"

"It's branding," Genie tossed her ponytail over one shoulder. "Look it up."

"We worked on catch phrases," Stan said while the chefs watched guests around the room taste their dishes. 

"Oh yeah?!" Grigor grinned at the others, rolling his eyes at Andy when he didn't return his enthusiasm. "That's a good idea. What's yours?"

"Voila," Stan said, chest puffed out in pride.

Andy scoffed. "That's more lazy cliche than catch phrase."

"Same thing, no?" Stan shrugged. "What's yours?"

Andy tilted his head to the side, his eyes following Venus as she gently blew on a spoonful of broth before testing it. 

"I don't have a catch phrase. Just good food."

"Oh," Grigor squeezed his shoulder, "that's a good one. 'Just good food'. But you say it all mumbly. Like a Scottish Batman."

"Mmthanks," Andy said, his cheeks red and pinching up in a smile even as he tried to shake Grigor's hand off his shoulder.

"Hey." Grigor's breath was hot against Andy neck, one hand still squeezed his shoulder and Andy suddenly felt another wriggle into his pocket. "Hey."

Andy tried not to jump at the sudden sensation. "What are you doing?" He kept his teeth clenched, his eyes still following the judges every movement.

"I," Grigor concentrated for a moment until the hand he'd stuffed in Andy's pocket brushed against something that made Andy suck in air and caused his back muscles to tighten against Grigor's chest. "I'm thinking, we've served our dishes. And it's at least half an hour of deliberation after. So... you wanna play a game?"

His hand cupped inside Andy's pocket and Stan and Genie were both forced to pretend they'd found something fascinating on the other side of the room to stare at, Andy's excited exhale was still too obvious.

"You're crazy," Andy said, relaxing his shoulders and leaning into Grigor's grip. "But I like this game."

Grigor couldn't suppress his smile, chomped his teeth in Andy's ear for fun. "Ok then. It's a game. It's called Pearl Harbor. I act totally normal and you suddenly blow the hell out of me."

"My god!" Genie still faced the other wall, but her face turned red as she clapped her hands over her mouth.

"You haven't learned your lesson?" Andy grabbed Grigor's hand out of his pocket. "Let's go find that old broom closet while I can still stand."

-

Andy rocked on his heels and forward again, soles of his feet firmly planted on the black X taped on the floor. Andy, Grigor, Stan and Genie stood shoulder to shoulder. Overgrown nesting dolls unpacked on a shelf, all wearing matching white coats and nervous smiles. Stan wiped the sweat from his forehead with a coffee filter he’d stolen from the kitchen. 

Tom did his best to pretend the tension in the room was the same as always but the other judges gave him away, concern and worry and giddy excitement on their faces as Tom prepared to announce the chefs that would compete in the final episodes of the show. The chefs that still had a chance to become Top Chef. 

"First of all," Tom smiled at the four contestants, "congratulations to each of you for making it this far. I'm incredibly proud of all of you." Venus, Ava, and Rafa nodded in firm agreement.

"But - and there's always a but - that doesn't mean you'll all be joining us in the finals next week. Unfortunately, this is someone's last night here with us."

Andy found a point on the wall so dull and lifeless he could almost pretend he was one round away from competing for the $100,000 prize that would guarantee the reopening of his restaurant. He stared at the spot on the wall and refused to tear his eyes away as he swayed forward and back.

"Genie," Tom pointed at her, "congratulations - you're joining us in the finals of Top Chef. It was real ballsy to serve a dashi broth to a room full of Ramen experts, but the cumin and lamb played off your broth perfectly. Great job."

She spun around in a tightly coiled poirette, taking just a moment to wink at Stan before walking to the other side of the judges’ table. Her smile to the cameras was genuine, magnetic. Andy realized she might not be much for catch phrases, but she might not need them.

Tom turned his attention to the three men in front of him. "It was close with all three of you. Stan - I have no idea how you had time to slow poach that octopus but, _man,_ was it good. Unfortunately, your rice noodles were underdone, plain and simple."

Stan's adam's apple rose and fell, a Pez dispenser of swallowed regret and hopeful prayers bobbing up and down. Tom pointed to Andy.

"Andy, your dish tonight was light and flavorful. Opting to skip serving a protein is always a huge risk, but your spaghetti squash stood out on it's own merits. You balanced the spices perfectly. But I'm not sure that's enough at this point. I just worry you're coasting, or distracted, and it's limiting your imagination in the kitchen. You had a balanced dish today, but that's about all there is to say about it."

"OK," Andy said, still trying to focus on the dried paint behind Tom. He'd tugged his sleeves as close to his wrist bones as they could possibly stretch.

"Grigor," Tom sighed and clasped his hands together. "Grigor. Honestly, you've been the biggest surprise to me this season. When you joined I wasn't sure you'd have the focus or desire to make it this far. It was never a question of talent, though, and I'm so glad to see you've proved my initial instincts wrong."

"Thank you, Chef." Grigor's smile tugged at his lips, reluctant. He didn't share Andy's quiet nerves, or Stan's guilty anxiety. He was, Andy realized, resigned. Andy’s eyes widened. Something was terribly off, he could feel it.

"Unfortunately," Tom struggled to keep his eyes on Grigor and away from the Scottish gargoyle perched to his right. "Top Chef is about more than skill. It's about performing under pressure and making the most with what you're provided each week, and nothing more. It's come to our attention that you stepped out of those parameters while on the show. And..."

Tom squeezed his fingers together and flexed his jaw. Venus put her own hand over his and looked to Grigor.

"Grigor," her voice was unexpectedly hoarse as she squeezed Tom again. "I'm sorry. Please pack your knives and go."

A simple "thank you" escaped Grigor's lips. He turned to Andy, a lopsided smile on half his face.

"Well, Mumbles. I would've loved to beat you to the prize. But I'm in your corner, now."

Andy blinked, his body fully turned towards Grigor. He took in his strange smile, the words of Tom's dismissal ricocheting in his head. He gripped Grigor's phone in his pocket.

"The fuck are you talking about?" Andy found his voice, decibels louder than he expected. 

Venus reeled back and squeezed Tom's hand tighter. "Do something," she whispered. Tom stared forward, each of the judges holding their breath as Grigor tried to find his words.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," the anger bubbled up in Andy's throat. "What the fuck are you talking about. In my corner? You're supposed to be here. With me. I took care of things with Maria. What the fuck is this parameters nonsense."

"Hey hey hey," Rafa found his voice at the edge of the judges' table. He pushed his chair back and stood slowly, a long arm extending towards the contestants. "Let's calm down, yeah? You are in the finals, Andy. Celebrate."

Andy didn't bother to look towards Rafa, eyes studying Grigor. Looking for signs of the Grigor he knows inside out instead of the stranger standing in front of him.

"I fucked up, Andy." It was so quiet the nearby mics missed it entirely. When the episode finally aired on television, their entire conversation had little yellow captions to accompany it.

Grigor stared at the ground, not sure how to move forward.

"So the tape was bullshit?"

"No. And thank you for stopping that." Grigor took a step forward and grabbed Andy's hand. "Thank you."

He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, desperate not to blow things up and too angry to think of another solution. "What did you do?"

Grigor winced at the sensation of Andy pulling his hand away.

Venus let go of Tom and grabbed the table with both hands. 

"It was a tweet!" She waited for Andy to take a few rigid steps to face her.

"He tweeted a picture. From the Nautica. In direct violation of our social media and press outreach clause you all signed before joining the show."

Andy's eyes flickered to Rafa and Ava, to Juan behind a camera, to anyone who might have some sort of magic veto power.

"It was a photo of you," Venus said, body relaxing into her chair. "The timing meant there's no way to deny you made it at least until the Nautica, which counts as revealing a spoiler to the public. There's no gray area here."

Grigor lunged forward, reaching for Andy's hand again.

"Mumbles, I can explai-"

Andy jerked away, his body spasming at the feeling of Grigor's fingertips on his skin.

"I confronted Maria for you." His nostrils flared.

"I know. I know." Grigor tried to reassure him. Stan stared at the ground and slowly backed away from the two of them.

"I put myself on the line. Stopped her from sending shit to your family. I trusted you to even start my dish. I mean," Andy grabbed a handful of hair. His face took on a red tinge. 

"Fuck, Grigor. Fuck! I know these things take some compromise but you come at one hell of an opportunity cost. And you just - just fucking threw it away? On a tweet? What, are you that desperate for fame you had to flash my ass to a couple thousand people?"

Ava closed her eyes, the other judges pulled at the table cloth with twitchy fingers. Outside of the bright klieg lights the producers held up firm hands to tell the judges not to intervene. Not yet.

"No!" The sound from Grigor was a wounded cry. "Of course not. You know that - you know me. Hey! Look at me!"

"I can't," Andy rolled his eyes up towards the ceiling. "I just can't. I mean, I know this social shit is important to you but... I can't believe it."

"Andy, look at me. It's not what you think! I-"

"You know," Andy shook his head, his fist clenching into a ball. "I was fine with you taking pictures, it's what you do. But to violate your contract. Just. It's just so fucking stupid."

Grigor face dropped. The producers tensed, ready to jump.

"What," Grigor said through clenched teeth, "did you say?"

"I said," Andy stepped forward, chest nearly brushing Grigor's, eyes ablaze. "I didn't know you could be so fucking stupid."

It was out of his mouth before he realized what he'd said. He closed his eyes, over flowing with the sudden desire to pluck the sound waves from the air and cram them back into his mouth. Find a way to cover Grigor's ears, barricade his heart, before Andy's words had a chance to seep in.

He knew it was too late in the way that Grigor wilted. His cheeks looking hollow as he sucked in a breath, his body sagging. Andy's puffed out chest felt ridiculous as Grigor deflated. He reeled back within himself, pulling away from Andy entirely.

He spoke slowly, chin tucked to his chest. "I'm not stupid."

Andy hated the tone of Grigor's voice, the tone that gave away how unsure he was about that sentence. Weeks ago it was his assured, dark, forceful tone that had unsettled Andy. Now, again aware of the judges and producers and camera men and chefs surrounding them, it was the tiny and quiet man in front of him that scared Andy, that made him hate himself.

"I didn't. I know that-. I'm... I need a minute."

Andy turned his back to the judges table and began walking. He wasn't sure where he was going. He just knew that life had blessed him with two skills. The first was cooking. The second was the ability to constantly say the wrong thing at the right time. As the two talents clashed against each other, he simply found his feet and walked away. He wandered past cameras and through the large studio and found himself outside the makeshift confessional tent he'd visited after the very first elimination challenge. He pushed his way in.

"Maria, look, I know we don't-." Andy stopped short, his eyes adjusting to the harsh lighting of the booth. "Of course it's you."

"Hi, Andy." Roger stood and offered his hand, grasping Andy firmly. "You look like shit."

"Hi, Roger." Andy shook his hand, a sour taste invading his mouth. "So you're. Here. Last Chance Kitchen?"

Roger nodded. After each contestant was eliminated, they had the chance to compete on the web series Last Chance Kitchen. The chef who survived until the finale got to rejoin the show. And apparently Roger had survived for 5 full weeks.

"Don't look so excited," Roger said. He clapped Andy on the back. "Hey. You ok, bud?"

Andy rolled his eyes and tried to pretend Roger hadn’t just called him 'bud'. 

"No." The pain in his voice surprised even Andy. His chest heaved as he finally began to mentally process the last ten minutes. He cringed at a shock of pain running up his spine and tried to catch his breath. 

"I'm not. I'm definitely not ok, Roger."

"Are you going to pass out on the floor again?"

Andy put his hands on his knees and looked up at Roger. How did he even know about that?

"Go fuck yourself."

"Alright, Andy. You sound fine to me."


	12. Episode Seven - Behind the Scenes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genie plays with air. Maria plays with water. Andy plays with fire.

Juan drove in silence. He tried to avoid bumps in the road, weary a pothole could set off the human time-bombs that rattled around in his backseat. Andy angled himself towards the window and dug his knees into the sliding door to get just a little further away from Roger. Stan and Genie sat on the back bench, examining their cuticles and counting cars that passed on the other side of the road, each determined not to be the first to speak.

Genie flicked the air vent open and shut above her head.

"Hey Juan, some air, please. It's stuffy back here."

Andy leaned his forehead against the glass. "It's not stuffy it's fucking awkward."

"Yeah and who's fault is that?" Genie was on a hairpin trigger.

"Everyone? I don't know. If I had to choose one person... Stan. On account of the whole sabotage thing."

Stan grabbed the back of Andy and Roger's bench and yelled up to Juan.

"Maybe the radio would be nice! Please!"

"Oh, come on, Stan," Andy said. "I know you did it. You know you did it. Roger obviously knows you did it. Right, Rog?"

The producers had assembled gift bags for the finalists. Roger plucked his off the floor and dug inside as if he hadn't heard a word around him. Andy's nostrils flared.

"Oh so I'm the asshole tonight?"

"Well," Genie said, "you are the only one to make someone cry today."

Andy could feel his face burning. "It's really none of your business."

"Oh really!" Stan burst. "But all of the sudden my relationship and sabotage is everyone's business, Andy?"

"So are you admitting to the sabotage part?" Andy turned in his seat to stare at Stan. Roger searched deeper in his bag and pulled out a plastic box.

"Oh," he forced a smile, "a sleeping mask. That's nice, don't you think?"

"No," Genie kicked the back of his seat. "No one gives a shit about the sleeping mask, dude. Stop it."

Stan pawed at the vent above Genie's head. "Where are we on that AC, Juan?"

Roger threw the mask back into his bag. "Jesus, why don't I just ask for the heat, that way you'll make sure the AC functions just fine. Eh, Stanny?"

"What the fuck is that supposed to even mean, Roger?!" He kicked the back of the seat again. Roger's body shook with the impact.

"It means you can't ignore what you did!" Roger punched his own seat, irritated when he realized it wasn't the same as Stan kicking it. "Whatever."

"JUAN!" Genie screamed. "Radio. Por favor! S'il vous plait! What the fuck ever. Andy, how do you say please in Brittish?"

"Please."

"You heard the man!"

She folded her arms over her chest, blew a whip of hair out of her face. The sound of the wheels pounding against pavement and the humming of cameras around them was deafening. They were in the eye of the tornado, the air warm and eerie and threatening in it's stillness.

Roger stared at Stan, red faced and lips sealed together so hard it must have hurt. He clutched his gift bag like a life preserver. Stan threw his hands up in the air.

"I don't want to do this talk in a van, Roger! You cannot act so betrayed. You didn't even want to be on the damn show until your last restaurant failed. You're a whore for media. With fortunate timing."

Andy choked on his own laughter. Stan was a lot of things, but he was not a liar.

Genie's palm connected with the back of Andy's head. 

"Hypocrite laugh much? You're only here because you couldn't keep your ONE restaurant above water. And if Grigor hadn't started it, you never would've finished that spaghetti squash."

"I couldn't start it," Andy said through gritted teeth, "because I was busy _helping_ him."

"A lot of help you gave him," Stan said. "He's not even riding back in this van right now."

" **Lucky him!** " Andy banged his head against the window.

Stan tried to relax back into his seat, the bulging vein in his forehead giving him away. Genie jumped at the jet of cold air finally blasting from the vent. She reached up to close it. Andy stared out the window.

"Oh look!" Roger smiled, pulled something out of his gift bag. "A little bag of potato chips. That's cute."

"Radio!" Stan yelled. "Juaaannn!"

-

Genie threw her bags onto a bed and slammed the door. She had no interest in speaking to anyone inside the penthouse until tomorrow's finale forced her to. Stan practically ran to the next room, the air between him and Roger so charged it began to physically chafe them both.

Andy stuck his head into what had been the Champagne Room. The room was bare, save for a camera mounted to one wall that protruded into the empty space. It was a vote of No Confidence from the producers. They knew none of the four finalists would be sneaking into the Champagne Room together at this point.

He walked into the last bedroom and threw himself onto the lower bunk. Andy felt his spirits sag with the mattress, both reluctantly springy, though worn and bowed. He'd lost so much tonight, but could still win the competition. He'd managed to ruin everything. Took comfort in the fact that nothing was resolved. 

Andy and the mattress sagged even deeper as Roger threw his bags on the top bunk. They didn't bother speaking, with the Champagne Room completely cleared out there was no debating where Roger would sleep. And for once, Andy didn't feel like fighting. He closed his eyes. Focused on the rhythmic nature of his breath and resisted the urge to scratch the stubble along his jaw that threatened to become a beard.

Roger must have left at some point because he came puttering back into the room some time later, holding an old home phone with his hand tight over the receiver.

"It's for you," Roger said. His voice startled Andy out of his haze. Roger read the confusion, the familiar tiredness, in Andy's eyes. "Word of advice, take it in the shower. Ok?"

Andy nodded, feeling like he wasn't anywhere at all as he stumbled towards the penthouse bathroom. He closed the bathroom door and sat on the floor.

"Hello?"

"Don't hang up," Maria said. "I need you to turn on the shower right now."

Andy said nothing, ran a hand down his face and listened to Maria's breathing on the other side of the line. He wondered where she was. Why she hadn't followed them back to the penthouse in a company car if she wanted to fire him from the show. Wondered how long he could keep her on the line, simply silent until she gave up.

He fumbled for the faucet and turned on the shower.

"The microphones can't pick up your voice over the running water. It's been a nightmare for your scenes with Grigor. So..." Maria's voice was hesitant. 

"We need to talk, Andy."

"We really don't." Andy said it, but he made no attempt to hang up. She took the hint to press on.

"Look. Today was not *exactly* my finest moment. But," Maria paused to pick her words with precision, "I want to thank you for not taking that recording up the chain to my boss. It would cost me my job. And I want to make it right. You understand?"

Andy peeled off his shirt and laid back on the bathroom floor, the steam crawling up the mirror and filling the room.

"I'm listening."

"Alright," Maria sighed in relief. "Officially, I'm calling to tell you to stop with the outbursts. There's a finite cap on the number of chefs you can make cry in one season. Got it?"

"Yeah," Andy said. "Have I really been that awful? This is fucking shameful."

"Ok," Maria said, Andy could her her tapping on a countertop or clipboard in the distance. "Unofficially, umm. So do you remember when I asked you if things seemed too easy? Well, then, why would Grigor throw that away?"

The steam began to relax his muscles, Andy sunk into the floor. "I don't know. Fame, I guess? Blog mentions? A tweet with a bare assed Top Chef contestant in a freezer has to be worth some solid page views."

He cringed as Maria pounded her phone against a counter top. She wanted this call over as soon as possible.

"Ow - what the fuck was that?!"

"Jesus, Andy. You stole my notes! We should've kicked you off the show immediately. But we can't exactly boot you if viewers know you made it deep into the competition. Like, if there were proof you made it to the next shooting location..."

Grigor's shot of Andy was their first time together, their first time learning each others' body. The rush of it was all Andy could remember. The timing of it, only a week after he'd stolen Maria's notes from the editing room, had completely slipped away from his memory, replaced by the sizzling thought of lips on skin and strong fingers struggling to wrap all the way around him.

"Shit." Andy couldn't think of anything else to say as the events fell into place. Grigor had violated his own contract to protect him. And he'd condemned him for it.

"Not so stupid after all, is he?"

Andy's stomach ached. "I didn't know."

"Well now you do." 

Maria's voice was flat. It wasn't lost on Andy that she'd once had very real feelings for Grigor as well. 

"Goodnight, Andy."

It was a short click and Andy was left to the sound of water rushing through pipes.

-

He eventually found his way to the living room, the cool air of the penthouse clashing with the warm skin of his exposed chest. He needed to wander, needed a distraction to forget the steam bath that had closed in on him. 

The living room was stacked with old VHS tapes but Andy quickly gave up on the idea of a movie. He found found Stan asleep on an EZ chair, swallowed by the blue light of Gremlins 2 in the VCR, and instead headed towards the kitchen.

It was still brightly lit, even late at night. Undisturbed wine glasses sat on the countertop. Their four gift bags were stacked on the island. Andy peered into each of them, looking for nothing in particular.

"Hey," Roger's voice was sleepy and soft, hints of his German accent stronger than usual. He shuffled into the kitchen in flannel pants and a t-shirt. Andy realized he must look ridiculous, sweaty and shirtless, caught in a pair of jeans with his hand in someone else's bag.

"Nothing!" he said. "I mean... What are you doing up?"

Roger held up an empty water glass and opened the refrigerator door.

Andy pulled his hand out of the gift bag, emerging with the bag of chips Roger had found earlier. 

"Crisp?"

Roger filled his water glass and turned his attention to Andy's bag. Paqui. Carolina Reaper Madness. His eyes popped open as he read the Scoville units of the peppers used to make the chips. 

"Fuck no. What is that monstrosity?"

Andy shrugged. "It's American. C'mon, it's just a little spicy."

"Out of the question. I have a perfect palette."

"Of course you do." Andy tossed the bag onto the island.

"You know, I can't decide if you hate me or you just hate everyone."

"Just you," Andy said. "Relentlessly. Manicured. You. _Bud_."

Roger downed his water in one gulp while Andy read the back of the bag of chips. He stared at the sparkling glass in his hand and tried to think of something nice to say.

"You nervous?"

"Not really," Andy said it with a shrug that barely registered. "But yes. I'm not but I should be. I don't know."

Roger opened the refrigerator, reaching for the water filter and instead turning around with a beer in each hand. He wiggled them at Andy, who nodded and jutted out his hand.

"If I'm being honest. I can't say I've thought about it," Andy popped the bottles open on the edge of the island. "The finale, I mean."

Roger took his opened bottle back from Andy. He couldn't help but be jealous. The finals were all Roger had thought about for months. He'd been on a losing streak with his last restaurant, with running into Stan in the competition, with Stan's sabotage. 

He took a sip of his beer. For the first time in his life he envied the Scot and Roger quietly wanted to drown out the taste. Andy might not know it but he had endorsements coming, investors coming, after making it this far into Top Chef. Not like Roger, who'd missed most of the season toiling away in the obscurity of Last Chance Kitchen. At this point, only winning the entire competition could redeem his career. 

Even worse, Roger's love life was in tatters, asleep in front of an old VCR while Andy's bold personality and shaky romance would make him a blog darling. Roger couldn't compete.

Roger raised the bottle to his lips again. "So you've done well for yourself, yeah? Into the finale. And when it ends, you've got an impossibly gorgeous man waiting by the phone."

"Yeah, not so much." Andy sipped his beer. "I can't. Roger. I said something unforgivable. I found the one way to really wreck it. I knew it would hurt him and I _wanted_ to and it's just-

"The fact that your mouth is a force of nature?"

"Fucking right it is," Andy said.

Andy stared forward, fingers idly pulling at the tabs of the bag of chips. He'd sunk half his beer already. Roger tried to be inconspicuous as he tipped his back with a bit of effort. He wiped his chin and studied Andy in front of him. His body was nothing shy of manly, broad shoulders flexing with every movement as he couldn't keep his hands off his beer. But his demeanor, his eyes glued to the island in front of them and hands toying with a half empty bottle, still reminded Roger of a boy. A man desperately trying to physically outgrow his old self.

"Do you believe Maria? Do you think he did it to save you?"

"Yes," Andy said it without hesitation. He didn't bother asking how much of his shower conversation Roger had over heard.

He swigged down more of his beer and pointed at Andy. "You know what your problem is? You're afraid to want something. Because if you admit you want it, suddenly there's a chance you might not get it. You'd fail. And you're terrified of failing."

Andy peeled the label off his beer and balled it up. He'd taken the bait.

"No. That's not - no. I failed. My restaurant failed, Roger."

"And you're afraid to say you want it back."

"No! I'm not. I said it." Andy stalked out of the kitchen in a rush. Roger wasn't sure what to do, was relieved when Andy walked back into the kitchen with a scribbled up napkin.

"See! I fucking said it. I sat at a table in a cabin and I held his hand and I said I wanted my restaurant back. You don't know everything, Roger. You don't know the first thing about me."

Roger inspected the tattered napkin, the little doodles, the familiar numbers along the edges.

"That," he plunked down an empty beer, "is bullshit. I've known you for over a decade now, Andy! I know you're in love with Grigor and I didn't even see it happen. I know you're jealous of me, but I think deep down you kind of like me."

Andy shook his head back and forth as the smile spread on Roger's face.

"Yes you do. You fucking like me. And I know you want to win this competition so much that you might sabotage yourself. Might try to convince yourself you want it less."

"That doesn't count. None of those count," Andy said.

"Fine," Roger pointed at the chips in Andy's hand. "I know you want to eat that damn chip. You've been staring at it all night and it's crass and dumb and you want to eat it, anyway."

Andy pulled his hands away from the bag. So what if he was curious about it? It was a marketing gimmick, too hot to have any flavor other than pain.

"No," Andy rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't want it. I want YOU to eat it. I want to see you try the damn things, do something mildly interesting for once."

"I will if you will." It shot out of Roger's mouth before either of then could back down. Andy's hand paused on the bag, his eyes finally lifting up towards Roger's.

Roger nodded. "I will if you will. Buddy."

Andy stared, trying to decide his next move. He pulled the bag open.

"Grab another beer," he said. "It's going to make your eyes water. Don't rub your eyes with the hand that touches the crisp."

"I'm not an idiot!" Roger put two more beers on the island.

"Then why do you have that haircut?"

Roger tried not to throw his beer. He opened his chip bag and looked at Andy. Two men with sterling palettes were about to taste-test a novelty that most doctors couldn't recommend.

"Ready?"

Andy nodded. They both slowly crunched the lone chip in each bag. Roger tilted his head from side to side while chewing. Andy chomped in short staccato bites, hoping to swallow the chip before the spice hit.

It provided no warning. No five alarm bells. There was no hint of heat or tingly sensation before the burn. It was simply a ball of lava, traveling down their throats and pouring out of their ears. Hot didn't come close. It was an inferno carried on the back of a potato chip. Andy struggled to keep it down.

"DEAR GOD!" Roger spat into the sink, nearly expecting a line of fire to trail out of his lips. The heat was inhuman.

"Ho! Fuck me!" Andy leaned over the island and pounded his fist against the marble counter, his lungs unable to take a breath.

Roger chugged his beer as tears streamed from red eyes. He stomped his feet and released an uncontrollable laugh.

Andy couldn't help but laugh, too, though the air itself burned his throat. "Who would make this?"

"It's in my sinuses. It's in my face. Christ, Andy!" Roger fanned himself. 

"I'm so sorry," Andy couldn't stop laughing now, even his tears too hot, stinging his cheeks. "It just keeps getting worse!" 

He yelled into the open kitchen, a primal roar echoing in his chest. 

"Roger, I might die like this."

Roger's laugh had become high and squeaky. He doubled over, leaning against the sink for support. "My breath is actual fire. Like, literally, igniting things. Fire. That's he only explanation."

Andy pulled himself upright. He paced the kitchen. Roger handed him another beer, they passed it back and forth furiously until it'd been drained. Andy watched in fascination as Roger pulled a gallon of milk from the refrigerator and drank from it directly. The inelegance clashed with Roger himself in a way that Andy's mind couldn't reconcile.

"Oh. Ok," Roger blinked hard as the pain subsided. "Holy shit that was terrible."

"I'm genuinely afraid of what it's like when it comes out." Andy's eyes were bright and red, his cheeks stained with tears.

"Oh no," Roger's eyes grew wide. "Andy!"

"I"m so sorry," he forced the words out through laughter. "I really am."

The redness had spread from Andy's eyes to his cheeks, down past his neck and flushed his entire chest. Roger's gaze crawled lower and lower, the heat of the chips suddenly forgotten. He put a hand on Andy's hip and moved slowly, deliberately, to bring his lips against Andy's.

They were alarmingly soft. They were yielding, not combative the way Roger had imagined. Almost afraid of the contact. The unholy spice still lingering on Roger's lips forced Andy's eyes open but he relaxed as Roger's chest pressed against him. Andy let himself adjust to the new feeling for a moment before pulling away. Roger looked at him with the question already written across his face.

"So?"

Andy licked the spice from his lips but tasted nothing beside his own regret. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shook his head.

Roger grabbed Andy by the shoulders and rattled him. "Say it, Andy! You can do it."

"I still want him, Roger," Andy said it, hardly believing his own voice. "You win. I don't know if I've got a chance any more, honestly. Or if he still wants me but- I still want him."

"Well there you go," Roger dropped his hand to his side. "All it took was a near death experience."

"Thanks, I guess?"

"You're welcome," Roger filled up his water glass a last time and turned towards their room. "I'm excited to beat you in the finale tomorrow. But if you win - and that's a big if - I will expect half your earnings. Since I gave this big pep talk and all."

Andy smiled, still wiping tears from his eyes. "Uh-hmm. And if you win, I'll expect half of yours. As I've successfully kept you out of Stan's room for an entire night."

Roger tottered down the hallway, the flannel legs of his pajamas brushing against each other.

"Go get some sleep, Andy. We've got all the time in the world to worry about boys. Tomorrow, it's all about us."


	13. Finale - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, Judy

The Divine Cafe first opened it's doors in 1886, though it didn't last for long. The building was said to be haunted, cursed even, before modern architects determined the building was simply built in the section of Manhattan where sturdier bedrock gave way to softer limestone as the city receded into the river. Cursed with ghosts or cursed with poor foundation, the creeks and moans and progressively cracking floors made the place unsustainable after a few short years. 

In 1904 the basement was filled in, either burying the spirits lurking there or cementing the building's poor foundation, and the inside of the restaurant began to take on it's famous art nouveau interiors it's still known for. In 1914 the lease for the Divine Cafe was lost in a poker game played on the RMS Majestic. The winner, Suzanne Lenglen, rechristened the restaurant as La Divine and soon ushered in a new age of fine dining in New York. 

Under her propriothership, La Divine became a beacon of cosmopolitan New York, attracting artists and celebrities through the Prohibition Era of the 1920s and later becoming a valuable center of international information prior to the Second World War. Lenglen's unexpected death in 1938 signaled the decline of the fashionable hot spot, further complicated by the decline of international travel through the early 1940s. At one point, iron rods and metal fixtures in the ornate decorations were confiscated and melted down for war efforts. Later, the building itself was largely stripped of copper wire by vandals in the 1950s.

"Did you know?" Roger asked no one in particular. "It wasn't until 1974 that chef Chris Evert reopened the cafe as La Divine that the name was restored to prominence in American cuisine."

The four chefs milled around the room, twitchy and irritated as they waited for the judges to finally grace them with their presence. Andy, Stan, and Genie stood in the dining room and tried to distract themselves with the beautiful interiors and patterned floors and attempts to decipher what had been used to perfume the air. Andy figured it was some combination of lemon grass and cloves. 

Roger occupied his time with history, running his fingers across the table clothes and rambling aloud about the Dali painting of Mae West in the corner and how Evert had hunted down the original blown glass center pieces to reopen La Divine.

Stan couldn't care less.

"Will you just -" he clenched his fist and shook his head, "please stop. We're here for a job today and yours is not tour guide."

"I kind of like it." Andy smiled as Stan rolled his eyes. "It's good to know what got us here, ya know? Who you're cooking for. Plus, ghosts!”

Genie sat on an overstuffed sofa, her skin sticking to the white leather. "It's so 80s. Very... Beetlejuice." 

"Actually," Venus pushed through the swinging doors of the kitchen and joined the chefs in the dining room, long purposeful strides bringing her to the center of the room while chefs scrambled to find their Xs and look dignified. 

"Actually, art nouveau peaked as an aesthetic movement between 1890 and 1910. Though I'm sure Roger already told you that."

She winked at Roger. He pushed out a quiet "hi" and squirmed in his coat, nerves finally replacing his history lessons. 

"Chefs, I'm so honored to have you here for this season's finale of Top Chef. La Divine has been an epicenter of cuisine, art, fashion, and nightlife for over 100 years. And today, you'll each be making progressive four course meals that are worthy of this both modern and historic place. We expect you to blend classic and new, and to hold nothing back. At the end of the day, one of you will be crowned Top Chef."

The four contestants let out excited laughs, a smattering of golf claps, and rocked back and forth. Andy massaged his back with both hands and stared at Venus intently, trying to listen to her every word while part of his mind already raced to decide on his four dishes. Updated classics was a hopelessly broad set of guidelines, but he'd been preparing for this finale for months. He dug a knuckle into a knot beside his spine and nodded along with the other chefs.

"Now they say," Venus leaned in dramatically, "that La Divine is haunted. The original owners could hear moaning at night, and more than one crew of sailers has had their last meal here before being lost at sea the next day.” 

Her eyes sparkled as she spoke.

“And here today, some lost souls are returning to us, at long last. Chefs - please welcome your sous chefs for today's challenge!"

She swept her arm out wide as they entered the dining room in a single file line. Beaming, energetic, ready for one more moment in front of cameras that hadn't focused on them in weeks. Aga, Novak, Vika, Nick, Caroline, Angelique, and Domi.

"No way!"

"Oh my god!"

"Wow wow wow."

Genie, Roger, and Stan shouted over each other, waving to the competitors they'd eliminated as if they were old friends.

Andy held his breath, chest inflated as he counted. They'd started with twelve contestants. There were four finalists, and he kept the air in his lungs as he counted the seven returning chefs. There had to be one more. He had to come back.

Domi waved at him in excitement. He waved back, at first half hearted and then with mock enthusiasm, the stretched out cuffs of his jacket sleeve bouncing around his wrists. Of course Grigor wouldn't be back, he'd been kicked off the show.

"Chefs, you'll each be able to choose one of your former competitors to help you today. And be prepared, we have a quartet of guests judges today that you will absolutely want to impress."

The rapid squeak grew louder, the sound of tennis shoes rubbing against tile, then abruptly stopped as the kitchen door swung open. Grigor had clearly been running and stalled his momentum as he entered the dining room.

"Sorry, sorry!" He stood in line with the other sous chefs, frantically attempting to finish off the top buttons on his coat. His hair was still wet. "What did I miss?"

Andy exhaled so loud that the mic operator laughed. His body uncoiled, chest rising and falling as he sucked in a fresh breath. He smiled tentatively at Grigor, who stared at Venus as if no one else was in the room. He was back. Domi grinned, eyes glittering as Andy visibly pulled himself together.

They had one hour to plan. Genie reclaimed her white sofa and Stan plunked down at a nearby table. Roger scribbled potential courses and ingredients on a piece of paper in another corner. Andy watched as the guest chefs disappeared back into the kitchen, his gaze nearly burning a hole through the dark wet hair on the back of Grigor's head. 

He paced through the dining room, drumming his fingers on a table before doubling back and drumming on another. He rifled through dishes in his mind. Through combinations of texture and prep time and flavors. He was four dishes away from winning everything.

-

Novak held it up in the air for the other chefs, metallic handle gripped tight in his right hand.

"It's a, what do you call, a dream catcher!" His smile was genuine, none of the others returned it. 

"It's a colander." Vika was not impressed.

"Yes," he held it up again. "But today, for one of them, that's the same thing as a dream catcher. Isn't it?"

Domi liked the idea of it, nodded her approval. "Are you comfortable using your dream catcher for Stan, when he asks?"

Novak's smile slipped away as he set the colander back down. He leaned both hands on the table.

"Yes. If I didn't help him to the best of my ability, I'd be no better than him."

It hadn't taken long for the re-assembled chefs to place bets on who would be picked to compete in the finale. Stan was practical, and practically without friends in the competition. He was bound to choose whoever could help without getting in his way. Novak became the obvious choice.

Roger was the most successful chef before starting the competition, and he hardly needed help with his dishes. But while he wasn't afraid to cook a dish, he was the first to admit he couldn't bake to save his life. He'd choose Aga to help complete his dessert. 

"That means," Aga squeezed Grigor's hand, excited to be back in the same room as her friend, "that you and I will be in competition yet again."

She squeezed him again, his hand limp. "Hello?"

"No," he pulled away and stuffed his hand into his pocket. 

"What do you mean, no?"

"No. It means "no". Ne. Nit. Nein... Ut-uh." He shook his head for emphasis. 

Nick clapped a hand on Grigor's back. "Oooh, what happened? Was it gonnorhea?"

Caroline looked up from another table. "That's not funny." Nick waved her off.

"No," Grigor shook himself free of Nick's grip and walked to the other side of the table, hands in his pockets. "Never mind. It's none of your business."

"Are you kidding?!" Domi nearly shouted. "It's all of our business. It's been all about you two since we got here and now you think you have a right to privacy? No way, dude. Re-read that contract you signed. You owe us. Spill it."

"He's on his own." Grigor stared at the floor. "Let him pick you."

"Thanks for the ringing endorsement."

Grigor tried not to smile. "You know what I mean. I just... I can't work with him. He'll pick you."

Angelique opened a refrigerator door, letting the cold air reach her face before closing it again. The banter of the others revealed their natural chemistry. They'd all spent weeks together, hours in kitchens and vans and cabins as they worked through the competition. Meanwhile, Angelique went home on the first day, and brought back nine stitches in her hand as a parting gift from Top Chef.

Andy would definitely pick Grigor or Domi. Stan seemed primed to pick Novak. Roger needed Aga. If Angi had any chance of getting her moment at redemption, it would be through Genie Bouchard.

-

He'd been stopped by two different producers from entering two separate rooms while wandering the kitchen. The restaurant was closing in one him.

"Are we allowed anywhere else?" Grigor reached to undo his top button, fingers fumbling to the realization that he'd never fastened it.

The producer pointed to a back door. "Everyone needs to be back here within an hour. You're allowed in the kitchen and the office, all other rooms are off limits."

"Got it." Grigor pushed through the doors.

He wasn't exactly thrilled to be back just a day after being kicked off the show, the embarrassment of his public fight with Andy still stinging. He'd spent the night in a cheap hotel and in the morning was greeted by the smell of instant coffee in a styrofoam cup. He leaned against the hotel desk and inhaled the exact scent of humiliation. 

He was only a few miles removed from the pent house, from Andy, and yet a lifetime away from the enamored Scot and french press coffee and the future he'd started to imagine for himself. He was foolish to get ahead of himself like that. The bitterness of his morning Folger's reminded him with every sip.

The beauty of La Divine snapped him out of it. The vaulted ceilings and opulent decor transporting him back to the competition. And while Aga and Domi were back in his life, the prospect of seeing Andy kept the occasion from feeling like a happy reunion. The idea of facing him hovered over Grigor, and all day he felt as if Andy, or Maria, or their tape, or someone else entirely was following him. He didn't believe in ghosts, but La Divine was definitely haunted.

He looked over his shoulder but couldn't find the set of eyes he felt on his back. He pushed through the back door and turned down the hallway.

"Hi."

The single syllable still caught in Andy's throat, coming out as a whisper.

"Shit!" Grigor jumped back, recoiling and catching his breath. The hallway was dim with bare bulbs, walls that had yellowed over the course of decades, and a giant Andy Murray in the center.

"Wow, ok. Hi." Grigor gathered himself. "How long have you been hiding in here?"

Andy shrugged. "Planning dishes. I've got everything planned out. But I'm missing one thing."

"Don't say me."

"No, I was going to say you." Andy grinned.

"I'm not playing this game with you." Grigor tapped his foot, considered trying to sneak past Andy and down the hallway.

"With you, no? It's a game with me. And I need you." His lips relaxed and his smile faded as Grigor tilted his head to the side and tried to look past him.

"I'm serious, boyo. I need you."

Grigor looked at Andy, his jacket freshly starched but unmistakably lived in. The stubble on his chin had become shabby over night, patches of beard beginning to form along his jaw. Grigor knew those little patches like they were constellations, had laid in bed poking at them at night and had watched them shift with jerky movements when Andy brushed his teeth each morning. They were straggly and uneven and charming, and Grigor couldn't help but notice how they failed to mask the tightness in Andy's jaw as he waited for Grigor's reply.

"No, Andy. I'm done."

Something in Andy deflated, escaping through the sadness in his eyes. Grigor slipped past him, their shoulders brushing for a moment as he made his way down the hallway. He didn't bother looking back as he approached the back office and shut the door behind him.

The door had barely clicked shut before he'd collapsed against it, his chest aching. He closed his eyes and flipped the lock.

"Oh don't cry now. It's too gauche."

Grigor's eyes flicked open. The back office was similarly dim, a small desk was pushed into a corner and topped with an ancient computer and a green lamp. There was a TV mounted on the wall, and a small table in front of it. Grigor eyed the old woman sitting beside the table. She studied him quietly before shaking a glass full of clear liquid at him.

"Fetch me some more ice then," she said. "And don't cry about that, too."

Grigor took a rigid step forward, finding a bucket of ice on the desk and holding it out. How did she get in here?

"Have you been following me?" He waited for her to throw the tongs back into the ice bucket before returning it to the desk.

"It seems like I was here before you, doesn't it?" She retrieved a small bottle of gin from her purse and set the ice cubes afloat.

"Earlier," he spoke slowly, still confused. "There was someone following me. You were."

"Well that's not important now." She took a sip of her drink, swishing it around for a moment before pulling out a bottle of tonic. "What's important now is introductions. My name is Judy."

She held out her hand, clasping Grigor with both palms and smiling. She released his hand and motioned for him to join her at the table. "Sit. Sit. Please."

"I know who you are." He scraped a chair across the floor. "You look exactly like him."

"Oh, I'm going to pretend you hadn't said that so we can still be friends, Grigor. That is your name, right? I get confused. See, for the longest time I thought it was all one word like you have it here - grigordimitrov - and that seemed like too much."

She held up her phone, flashing Grigor's Instagram account at him for an instant before dropping her phone back into her purse. His stomach dropped at the sight of his name on her phone. He took a hard swallow and reached for her drink.

"May I?" 

She nodded. "Oh, sure."

He gulped a rough swig of gin and tonic and exhaled heavily. He had trapped himself in an office with Judy Murray, and she'd come prepared.

"You see, Grigor Dimitrov - two words - I know who you are, too. You can imagine how surprised I was when Nigel Sears rang me - you see because Nigel Sears never rings me. But he did, and it was to say that apparently my youngest son had his arse out on the internet. Apparently, and you'd have to speak with Nigel about this to verify, but apparently that arse managed to reveal not only Andy but some important details of the new season of Top Chef. Producers, according to Nigel, were unhappy."

The flush had started in Grigor's cheeks and quickly spread into his forehead. Having run out of real estate, the heat in his cheeks radiated downward as well, with bright red patches of embarrassment appearing on his neck. He gripped the glass of gin harder and she motioned for him to take another sip.

"Now you see, young Grigor Dimitrov, this was quiet the news flash, if you'll pardon the pun." She pulled the drink from his hands and took a sip herself, eyes never breaking contact with his. 

"Because while I'm not afraid of Andrew's butt. I'm afraid I don't know you. I got a chance, through the cameras while the chefs met in the dining room, to meet you. And a chance to see how Andrew looked at you. And I have to say, I think I like you. I'm sure of it."

She put a hand on his, a look of sheer contentment in her eyes. "But please, darling, be a bit more discreet with my son's body moving forward. I don't need any more calls from Nigel Sears."

Grigor's mortification seemed to grow three sizes at once. She knew everything. He'd never met this woman and she knew everything. He'd saved Andy with a tweet and an Instagram post, ensuring producers couldn't write him out of the show for stealing Maria's clipboard. He hadn't thought it would disqualify him from the show. Didn't imagine it would somehow reach Andy's mother. And couldn't possibly dream up a scenario in which the woman would be politely scolding him over gin cocktails in a windowless office.

"Why are you here?" He found words, surprised that he could.

"I couldn't have a cocktail with all the other friends and family! I'm sorry, the other "guest judges". They'd all want to share and I only brought the one bottle."

"No," he smiled, already hearing Andy's cadences and humor in her voice. "You've been following me. You knew I'd end up here eventually. Why are you here?"

She rolled ice cubes around her glass, considered her next move.

"You know," she smiled. "Andy can be so singular in his focus, it actually scares him. When he was 14, I bought him a blowfish to try to flay, he'd become obsessed with the idea. When I gave it to him, he was so excited about it, so scared to spoil it's potential, that he just stared."

She shaped both hands into large Os and held them up to her face. "Eyes agog, Grigor. Agog!"

Grigor nodded, a gentle laugh escaping lips he'd tried to press tight.

"He couldn't bear the thought of ruining it, you see." She turned her attention back to her drink. "In that dining room, he looked at you just now with blowfish eyes. That's why I'm here. That and this Hendricks and tonic."

Grigor stood up, the loud scrape of his chair echoing through the little office. 

"Well, that's really sweet of you," he said. "And he might have two blowfish eyes. But he's got one hell of a smart mouth." 

He flicked the lock and opened the office door.

"Well, sure!" Judy Murray made no attempt to stop him. "And I can guarantee you, whatever he said to you - I've gotten worse, once upon a time. That's the thing, though, Grigor Dimitrov. You can train a smart mouth. But that look, when someone is in love like that, you can't."

-

Angelique locked eyes with Genie from across the dining room. She held up one hand, balled it into a fist, and punched at the air. They'd hardly met and she worried she might come off as manic or threatening, but Genie's expression never curdled into revulsion. Angi smiled and settled into place alongside the other potential sous chefs. Vika stood beside her, quiet and intense. Aga, Novak, Domi, Caroline, Nick, and Grigor fidgeted beside them.

Angelique stood rigidly straight, hair pulled back and chin high as the competing chefs approached. She listened as Venus announced the guest judges - friends and family members of the remaining contestants - before she turned her attention to the eight potential sous chefs. 

"Now," Venus said with a broad smile, "the eight of you have the option of rejoining the competition for one last challenge. And the chef who is teamed up with the winner of today's challenge, will also win $10,000 courtesy of Laver Steaks."

Angelique smiled, the muscles in her face impossibly tense. The other chefs were vocal in their excitement, and a chance to walk away from the studio with something to show for all their efforts.

"However," Venus's eyes bounced around the room, seemingly focusing on Grigor, Domi, and Nick all at once. "Some of you left the show on your own accord, and will not be forced to compete. If anyone chooses to - you may excuse yourself from the competition now."

The contestants looked amongst each other, waiting to see if anyone would throw in the towel. Domi shook her head vigorously, too proud to walk away twice. 

Andy shifted his weight onto one foot, afraid to look up but unable to stop himself. He lifted his head to find Grigor's eyes already staring at him. Andy shifted to his other foot. He mouthed a simple "I'm sorry" across the dining room.

Grigor stared back at him, something strange on his face. Andy waited for his reaction, his forgiveness or his final rejection. They stared at each other and Andy clenched his jaw.

Novak took a step forward, his hand raised. "I just want to say," he looked at the chefs lined up beside him, muscles tense. "That we're all super excited to be back." 

Novak grinned, pleased with his little fake out. Angelique considered how she'd dispose of his body. 

Andy saw it then. In the way Grigor's shoulders relaxed, laughter rumbling out of his chest. He'd made his choice. He was staying. The relief came out of him in choppy laughter as Novak stepped back into line.

"Alright," Venus clapped her hands. "That settles it, we're all in. Earlier, the chefs drew knives to decide pecking order and Roger, you're our winner. You get first choice."

"I feel like I'm on The Bachelor," Roger said, eagerly stepping forward. "I don't think this is the episode I find love but, Agnieska, will you take this ladle?"

It may have been the first time Angelique had seen her smile, but Aga's teeth were a white flash as she accepted the ladle Roger handed her. One down.

"And Stan," Venus pointed to the row of assembled sous chefs. "Who would you like to join your team for this final challenge?"

Stan stepped forward and surveyed the chefs.

"Well, I want someone I can trust. And someone I know has the skill to handle a lot on their own. We've spent a lot of time competing next to each other this season, so I know I can trust him. I choose Grigor."


	14. Finale - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boys, battle stations, and discarded brains. The steaks have never been higher

"I'm sorry, but with you here this genuinely feels like a nightmare." Andy sipped his gin and tonic. His mother did the same.

"You should be so lucky. To see me in your dreams."

"I said nightmare, mum."

Andy drained the glass, every miserable last drop. Even into his 30s, being around his mum or his brother brought out the teenager in Andy, petulant angst rising to the surface as if it'd been waiting for the right family member to trigger it. Pouting to his mother came naturally.

It didn't help that Andy had actually been sent to the corner by the Top Chef producers. He'd managed to crush one Limoges tea cup on the floor of La Divine before Juan had grabbed him by the waist and dragged the Scot to a corner table. He considered ripping a damask tablecloth in half before Judy Murray appeared, each of the friends and family members dispatched to calm down their chef-testants. 

"Oh, good. You're here."

"Hello, Andrew." Judy helped herself to the seat beside Andy. He stared at the floor as his mum pushed a tall gin and tonic his way. "It's nice to see you fully clothed, son."

Andy dropped his face into his hands. "I'm sorry, but with you here this genuinely feels like a nightmare." He reached for the gin and tonic without lifting his eyes off the ground, hands led by instinct and the need to dull the weight of the moment.

Of course his mother had words for him. If Andy had a gift of always saying the wrong thing, Judy had the gift of always saying one more thing. Andy sparred with her gently, draining his drink faster than he should.

She looked the same as always. Incredibly awake. Unimpressed. Entirely present. Like she'd tapped into the brainwaves of everyone around her, listened to their thoughts, finished a cup of tea, and had something to say about all of it. She pulled the empty glass from under Andy's chin.

"Ready to fight?"

He nodded, lips pressed hard against each other.

"Hope he's worth it." She didn't bother with any additional words of encouragement. She instead turned to a producer along a wall and rattled half-melted ice cubes around in her glass. They'd practically forced her to fly to the States, they might as well pour her a drink.

-

"What's in it for me?"

Stan looked directly at Maria, refusing to acknowledge Andy's glare. If he took the bait, and that's exactly what the producers were offering Stan - dramatic bait, there had to be some reward for him.

"Fair question, fair question." Maria nodded at Juan to be sure his camera was rolling. "If Andy wins, he gets Grigor on his team and you get your next choice. But - and here's where it's worth it for you and Genie and Roger - if you win, Andy's out."

Stan's pupils were blown wide. "Just like that. He's out. Three person finale?"

"Absolutely," Maria said it with a grin.

"Christ," Andy said. "The two of you may as well be cackling over a cauldron right now." 

Stan finally turned towards Andy. "You sure you want him that bad?"

Andy considered the weight of the question. The implications it had on his future with Grigor. His future in general. He knew the risks all too well, but the rewards were unknown, and Andy couldn't resist.

He shrugged. 

"I do. I want him that bad. I have no idea if he wants me. But I also just _really_ don't like you. So... Kind of a win-win for me if this works out."

Stan nodded. "And if I lose?"

"You're still in," Maria confirmed. 

"Sure. Why the hell not?"

Juan zoomed in on Andy's face as he wiped the sweat off his face. He'd get the guy, or at least go down swinging. Maria would get her drama, and Juan would get every camera shot. The three of them were finally learning to get along. 

-

The kitchen was a gladiators' ring. Producers, family members, friends, enemies, and random spectators all genuinely wiling someone to get maimed by a lion. All packed into the back house of La Divine as Andy and Stan raced against the clock. Andy mixed mustard, parsley, nutmeg, and sausage in a bowl, his hands covered in chunks of spices and shaking with adrenaline. Roger, Caroline, and Novak yelled from the sidelines, cheering wildly.

The other side of the kitchen was just as frenzied as Stan ran from rack to rack and threw ingredients in a bowl. Lentils. Basmati rice. Raisins. Onions. His dish looked scattered, or possibly genius. Nick cheered for him, largely just excited to contribute to the chaos, while Genie clenched her fist and shouted words of encouragement. Angelique and Vika cheered behind her.

"Hey," Angelique tapped Vika on the shoulder, index finger digging into her shoulder blade. "I know what you're doing."

Vika poked back. Hard. "Yeah, well, you cut yourself out of this competition once. Do you really need to do it again?"

"Oh, I'm sorry." Angelique said sorry in a way that distinctly meant she wasn't. "But didn't you leave the show last season, and then lose the first challenge this season? That's quite the track record."

Genie rolled her eyes and pretended not to hear the two women fighting behind her. She turned back to Stan's stove top and watched him slice potatoes haphazardly. Across the kitchen, Grigor leaned against a wall as Domi and Aga pecked at him, trying to convince him to rejoin the competition when asked. 

"Well," Aga argued, "two men fighting for you, even if it's a food fight, is fairly romantic.

Grigor wasn't buying it. "Yeah, but Stan isn't fighting for ME me. He's just being a dick."

"Oh, right" Domi kicked his shoe. "Because Andy offering to quit the competition just to have you by his side for three more hours isn't enough."

Aga pulled his wrist, trying to prevent Grigor from melting into the wall. 

"Look. You're going to say yes because you're going to say yes. You chased him for weeks, misiu. Now he's fighting for you. Like, with a knife, fighting for you. If you don't want him now that he wants you, then he was right to call you stupid."

"I'm not stupid," Grigor mumbled into his chest.

"Then it's settled." Aga turned her attention to Domi. "I love your nails, did you do them yourself?"

"No, this place in Denver. Come visit, I'd love to take you!"

"Oh, I've never been to Denver. I would love to visit," Aga said.

Grigor pushed himself off the wall. "So we're done with my thing?"

"I am," Aga inspected her own nails. "Good luck out there."

-

Adas Polo. A traditionally Persian dish, mainly lentils and rice with ultra thin slices of potato. When made by Stan Wawrinka, it also came with a mix of turmeric and saffron that packed an incredible punch. It was powerful and eclectic, and Venus was entirely charmed.

"It's so powerful and eclectic," she said. The flavors of dates and raisins and cardamom and cinnamon tangled together. "I'm entirely charmed."

Stan grinned at Andy, his hair disheveled and sweat dripping. He wasn't entirely sure he could count on Grigor to help him complete his four dishes for the finale, but if he knocked Andy out of the competition before the first course was cooked then the entire ordeal was worth it.

Andy waved his hand in front of his nose, batting away the scent of Stan's over-seasoned dish. He was all power and no finesse. All sizzle and no steak.

"Honestly," Andy said, "this is just a traditional Scotch egg. In lieu of breadcrumbs I've baked this with garlic falafel crumbs. The rest is just a hard boiled egg and sausage and whatnot."

Tom put his knife down. "It's perfect, Andy. You took a real risk making something so traditional, and you nailed the execution."

"Oh my God," Venus caught a piece of egg and scooped it back up. "How did you have time to make this falafel for this Quick Fire? It's so good."

Andy rubbed the back of his neck. "I, uhh, had it prepped for the main competition and just, umm, busted out the big guns for this challenge. It means the world to me."

The giggle caught Stan off guard. A short guffaw that quickly bubbled into a loud belly laugh.

"Are you serious?" He looked at Andy and flicked away tears. "Whatever. I concede. You win. You can have him. But if that was supposed to be one of your four courses, you'll need to redesign your whole menu. Good luck."

Stan offered a sarcastic thumbs up. Andy's face flushed red. He'd been so obsessed with winning a chance to stand beside Grigor, intent on winning this battle, that he'd sacrificed his entire war strategy. 

Rafa looked up from the judges' table. "Andy. It is easy to say you are the winner of this round. Although, I hope you saved the best for last." 

Rafa chewed on his lip, about to bite down on his last sentence before relenting. He looked behind Andy, to the young man leaning against the wall with his hands jammed into his pockets. 

"And I hope you're not cooking alone."

The room turned to Grigor as one, boom operators dangling fuzzy mics above his head.

"I dunno," he ran a hand through his dark hair and smiled, the tension seeping out of the room with his grin. "I don't know what to say."

"Say yes," Andy said, the softness in his voice nearly turning the statement into a question. "Please." 

He took a tentative step towards Grigor. He held his hands up and shrugged. "I'll beg if I have to."

Grigor closed the gap with one step. Domi hopped up and down, the anticipation driving her mad. Grigor lifted his hand up towards Andy, attempting to slap his palm in a high five before Andy's lips crashed into him.

"Really?" Andy wrapped both arms around Grigor's shoulders. "A high five?"

"Aga gets mad when I try to kiss her." Grigor's lips found Andy's cheek, his hands settling on Andy's hips. 

"Is that a yes?"

Grigor nodded. "I guess so." He kissed Andy again, this time happy to feel the Scot's lips responding to his own.

"But," Grigor pulled back. "Before all this... How'd you know I'd say yes, if you beat Stan?"

Andy's eyes darted around the room. "Honestly?" 

He leaned in, lips brushing Grigor's ear. He smelled familiar, skin warm and inviting. Andy had missed him in only a day. 

"Mum said you were still nervous to meet her."

Grigor kept nodding. "She is terrifying as fuck."

"You have no idea, boyo. Just wait until Christmas."

Stan clapped his hands, tried to avoid eye contact with the reunited idiots in front of him. "Alright, Djokovic. You're getting called into the game. You in?"

Novak buttoned up his chef's coat. "I feel so wanted."

"You'll feel better after you win ten thousand dollars," Stan said.

Novak shook his arms out. He hated to admit it, but Stan was right. Any misgivings Novak had about his character could be easily overlooked after the first thousand dollars. 

While Roger and Aga retreated to a corner and got down to business, Genie still hadn't chosen her sous chef. Angelique seemed to be faster at food prep, but she'd barely been on the show long enough for anyone to know her style. Vika had more experience on the show, but as Angelique pointed out, that just meant she'd already lost. Twice.

Genie pursed her lips. "Oof. I don't know. Why don't you two just fight for it?"

Vika balled her fist, escalating from zero to sixty in an instant. "Can we? Venus! Can we fight?"

"No no no no," Venus rushed between the ladies, Rafa right behind her. "There will be no fighting. It's Top Chef, not Top... Fighting Each Other." She held both hands up in front of her.

Angelique walked to the closest stove top, patted it twice, and defiantly laid her palm flat on the burner. Her gaze bore into Vika.

"Bring it on, bitch. If I'll do this to my own hand, just watch what I'll do to you."

"That's not even on!" Vika tried to duck through Rafa's arms, unsuccessful as he tangled her up.

"You get the point!" Angelique yelled.

That was the last anyone heard. A nod from Venus and security guards swarmed the floor. Angelique was easily scooped up. Vika put up more of a fight, eastern European curses slipping out of her lips. Andy watched, slack jawed, before a body slammed against him. He flailed and suddenly found himself in a half-nelson, a powerful arm digging into his back before Rafa rushed forward to intervene.

"Not him! Not him!" Rafa pulled Andy free of the burly men in blue shirts. He brushed the wrinkles out of Andy's shirt as the Scot caught his breath, not entirely sure what just happened. Grigor screamed at security guards as they stalked away, the sound of Vika's sneakers squeaking in resistance slowly faded away. 

"Sorry, Andy," Rafa laughed. "Security guards had drills earlier. We were, uhh, prepared more for you."

-

Andy's menu was toast. His Scotch egg was the signature dish at Hey Judy, luring in hip diners looking for something satisfying after bars closed and they waited for their Ubers. It wasn't log before it was on every Thrillist and Roads & Kingdom list in the city. At first Andy resented the bar snack becoming his signature dish but learned to live with it when the late night surge of egg hungry drunks kept the little restaurant afloat for it's short lifespan.

Unfortunately, it was also the corner stone of the four course meal he had three hours to complete. 

Producers shredded the menus they'd printed out as Andy rushed to think of a new meal. There was no time for lengthy prep, for slow roasting or glazing. Every dish had to be quick, simple, and perfectly executed.

"I'm screwed." Andy crumbled another sheet of paper and threw it into a nearby trash can. "We can use the noodles to make the cacio e pepe, but that's it. I might as well just serve some of mum's meatloaf and pray to the ghosts."

"Fugu!" Grigor's eyes lit up. "Fugu!" He repeated, fingers bouncing on the table top.

"Fugu! Your mum said you made it before."

"Yeah, sure. I'll poison everyone with blowfish. As soon as I get the three year apprenticeship to legally prep it."

"Oh come on! It's reality TV, Andy. They don't have time to make sure you do everything right. We lean on Maria to get it rush shipped, she owes me. You cut it into some rose petals or whatever. It's quick and easy, and we can knock out the other dishes. Come on!"

Andy looked up at the ceiling and considered his options. Grigor leaned his weight against him and kept repeating "come on, come on, come on" with excitement.

"Alright," Andy conceded. "Let's poison some diners."

-

Caroline's arm was sore from wielding the bread knife all day, but the stack of thick cut slices of challah bread was worth it. Genie's meal would conclude with a knock out dessert, challah french toast soaked in egg and cinnamon and gently deep fried. With Angelique and Vika dragged out of the competition, Caroline was happy to jump in to help. If she could win ten thousand dollars by cutting up some bread, she had no problem teaming up with Genie again. 

Genie's menu was all about proteins. Starting with subtly spiced lamb skewer appetizers, then moving to soft shell crabs loaded with brightly flavored snow peas before the main course. She'd created an upscale jerk chicken, the skin crispy and fatty and tender without being overwhelming. Caroline whipped up three different sauces and spooned generous helpings on the side of every plate, crushing chile seeds into one and dousing another with lime juice. Genie didn't plan to win with subtlety, but by leaning into her dishes and making sure every bite had impact.

Caroline was happy to have something to concentrate on other than Nick, a man once again on her bad side after a few short weeks of disastrous Skype calls. She blamed herself for letting her expectations build, and ate a spoonful of minced chilis to sear the thought of him out of her mind. 

Novak approached her with a heavy spoon, his smile lopsided as he tried not to spill a drop.

"Is this too salty?"

"Why do I feel like this is a trap?" Caroline leaned forward and sipped from the spoon anyway. "Oh god yes! What is it?"

Novak flicked the spoon into a sink and frowned. "It's a broth, it's corn, bacon, and tomato. He's making clams."

"Put a potato in it," Caroline popped another chili in her mouth to chase away the briny clam broth. "Try to suck out some of the salt."

"We shouldn't feel bad, cooking against Andy when he's our friend, right?"

"Nooo," Caroline said, the quiver in her voice giving her away. "I mean, do I feel bad? Yes. Yes, I feel bad. But, even if Andy's entire life rests on winning this... I still want to win."

"Me, too." Novak nodded, briefly hated himself. They were in too deep, they'd forgotten how to stop competing. "But, hey, our own integrity is worth something." 

Ten thousand dollars and Andy's career, Caroline didn't bother saying. "Yeah! Integrity, definitely. So... what else are you making?"

"Oh gosh," Novak stretched. "Kimchee stew. Clams for the seafood dish. He's doing sweetbreads with chanterelles for the main and a tres leches cake for dessert."

"What are chanterelles?" Caroline handed him a potato from under her table.

"Like super meaty mushrooms."

"Why don't you just call them mushrooms?" She smiled, glad to take a short break from her prep.

"Because," Novak held up his potato, "I'm very sophisticated. Chanterelles and I... we're fancy."

-

Andy hummed, stared at the gigantic trays full of venomous puffer fish in front of him. Square bodies and stubby fins and glossy eyes stared back at him. He plucked one from the tray and cut out the eyes and brain, mind disassociated from the physical anatomy of the fish and entirely trained on the workman-like movements of his blade. Hands leading his consciousness, soft hum buzzing from his throat, he sliced away the skin and carved out the insides.

The toxins, like concentrated cyanide, laid dormant inside the blowfish. Invisible inside the liver, the intestines, and for this particular fish, the ovaries. His mother had warned him as a kid, without red backs or yellow stripes to warn you, it was the females who carried their power so quietly. 

He dumped the innards in a biohazard bin, not bothering to ask how Grigor had gotten the blowfish or bins from the producers on such short notice. He focused on flaying the fish, hands steady as he cut away fillets. He slid the plate away and grabbed another fish, then another and another until his biohazard bin was nearly full. His focus so intense that he nearly lopped off a knuckle of Grigor's fingers when the younger man darted his hand in front of Andy and grabbed a sliver of fish.

"Hey!" Andy dropped his knife and tried to grab Grigor's hand. "I haven't tried it yet. I don't know if it's safe."

Grigor smiled, his trust in Andy mixing with the obvious need to calm the Scot down. "How do you know if it's safe? You just eat it, right? Then hope to not die."

Andy shrugged. "Something like that. Now give it to me, I'll try it first."

Grigor tossed it up into the air and caught the fish in his mouth, a self-satisfied grin spreading across his face as he chewed.

"It's... fishy." He swallowed, looked around the room expectantly. "How long before I die?"

"An hour or so. Cause of death - being a cocky bastard."

Grigor pecked Andy on the cheek, used the distraction as an opportunity to swipe another piece of fish from the table and cram it into his mouth.

"Might as well go all in," he flashed his teeth at Andy, mouth still full. 

"It looks different than I remember," Andy said, staring at the plate. "But the same. It's... it's a big swing." He shook the tension from his shoulders, hands errantly massage the small of his back.

"Eh, I'm not dead yet." Grigor grabbed his phone from his pocket and snapped a picture of the bin full of poisonous intestines. "As long as we don't kill any judges, we're going to win."

-

The gathered friends and family all got along well enough, though Judy was right to suspect she hadn't brought enough gin. She sat beside a beanpole of a man, the most interesting thing about him seeming to be his height and nothing else. She offered him the last of her drink, but Milos politely turned it down. He was there to support Genie and resolute on contributing nothing to conversation. Mirka, a longtime friend of Roger's, was at least fun to watch as she rolled her eyes and huffed at the producers around them. Magnus, a former chef and restaurant owner himself, was by far the friendliest guest judge. Judy didn't know Stan, but was sure she'd heard the name from Andy before. Magnus seemed sure she had.

Mirka sighed heavily as a blonde woman circulated through the room with yet another set of menus. The chefs had already changed their dishes twice, and as buzzing patrons streamed through the doors of La Divine, this round of changes was sure to be the last.

The last of her drink was splattered across her table as soon as she saw Andy planned to illegally serve lethal fish to 100 people Judy dug into her purse and pulled out a blue pen. She scribbled onto the menu and folded it up before waving at the blonde producer.

"Miss! Miss! Excuse me," Judy was on her feet. "So sorry to bother you. Are you familiar with Mister Grigor Dimitrov?"

Maria blinked repeatedly. "Is this a joke?"

"I don't know sweetheart, it's your life not mine," Judy said. "Can you give him this note? Immediately, please."

Judy pressed the menu into Maria's hand and turned back to her table. Maria's teeth gritted against each other before she turned and pushed her way into the kitchen. She'd barely spoken with Judy but already understood why Andy was compelled to request trays full of poison.

"Here," Maria jammed the paper into Grigor's chest. "This is from your mother in law." The shock of her abrupt entrance into the kitchen faded into a scrunched expression. "Judy Murray," Maria clarified.

"Oooh, right," the light bulb of recognition flicked on behind Grigor's eyes. He looked at the paper menu but didn't unfold it. "You can go now."

"Really?" Maria crossed her arms. "I can go now? How long are you going to be mad at me? I got you your damn blowfish."

"One," Grigor held up a finger, "it's fugu. And B - I'm allowed to still be mad about that video."

Maria pushed his hand away. "I already apologized for that."

 **"You did not!"** Grigor's veins pulsed along his temples, his dark eyes forming into slits. "You never once apologized."

"Oh, right, that was to Andy," Maria tapped her foot. "I forgot who I apologized to, ok! I'm sorry. I deleted it."

"You apologized to Andy, too?" Grigor seemed impressed.

"Yes," Maria said. "I apologized to him in the shower. And I'm apologizing to you now. I'm sorry."

"In the shower!?!" Grigor tore the menu in half and crushed the paper in both hands.

The other producers stopped to watch the confrontation, security guards already primed to move in. Maria couldn't stop from laughing.

"Not like, oh boy, not like that," she put a hand up in apology as the laughter overtook her. "Thanks," she patted Grigor on the shoulder. "I needed that."

She walked away, shoulders still shaking as she rejoined the rest of the producers. Grigor closed his mouth, watched her walk away before turning his attention back to the linguine noodles he'd spread across his prep table. He reached for his knife before remembering the crumpled papers in his hands. 

The top half showed Roger had changed his menu up slightly, making a duck confit for his main dish along with a sweet bun appetizer and seared octopus for his seafood dish. 

The bottom half had Andy's updated menu as well. And alongside it, in dashed off script with big uppercase letters, a handwritten note from Judy.

_IT WAS NEVER ACTUALLY BLOWFISH_

-

Andy practically made the pan amb tomaca in his sleep. The ingredients couldn't be simpler - sourdough, salt, tomato, olive oil - but the selection of each had to be perfect. Hanging tomatoes, free of acidity and pulp, had to be intense enough to carry the dish but not to overwhelm it. The sourdough toasted down to the specific second. 

His entire menu called for the same trick over and over again. His cacio e pepe was only three ingredients - pasta, cheese, and pepper - but the timing and tossing and addition of heat and the reduction and the smoothness of the dish all depended on nothing more than technique. The menu was herculean in it's simplicity. Even his dessert, a simple espresso served alongside a homemade vanilla ice cream, was a masterclass in touch and timing. 

His fugu fit into the same theme, the need for balance and technique unmistakable. He reached to test a piece when he felt familiar hands on his wrists, the soft and entirely pleasing feeling of Grigor's lips on his fingers as he snatched the fish out of Andy's hands like a penguin. An uncomfortably sexy penguin.

"Hey," Grigor swallowed the fish without chewing, as if to make Andy's point. "Have you, ugh, have you eaten this yet?"

"No," Andy said, "someone keeps swooping in and eating it for me."

"It's good," Grigor surveyed the dozens of plates already set, the petals of fugu arranged in abstract lotuses on table after table. He was too late to stop the dish from going out.

"So, in theory," he tried not to look at the bin of biohazard behind Andy, "if the dish was - say - actually poison. How would you know?"

Andy laughed and checked on another pot of boiling linguine. A waiter came by and scooped up some freshly plated pan amb tomaco. 

"Ahh, numbness, I guess." He was distracted with spices, adding pepper to another dish and moving from plate to plate quickly. "It's called tetrodotoxin. Supposedly it's pretty quick. Numbness around the mouth, paralysis, and then you just, like, die. Pretty crazy, huh?" 

Grigor brought his hands to his lips, discreetly squeezing the corners of his mouth, desperate to feel the pain from his own fingers without alarming Andy.

Andy plucked a petal off the table and inspected it. Grigor lunged forward, grabbing Andy's hand and loudly hoovering the fish into his own mouth. He tried to summon a sexy smoldering look as he chewed on the potentially deadly fish.

"It's good," he said, terrified as he chewed and tried to look seductive at the same time.

"So good you're not swallowing?" Andy leaned in close to Grigor. "That's not like you."

Grigor's gulp was audible, the tiny slice of blowfish going down like a golf ball.

His throat constricted. "It's not my preferred mouthful but it'll do for now."

"Look," Andy put a hand on Grigor's chest, whispering so the cameras didn't pick up too much of their conversation. "I'm wild about you, you know that? But now's not the time for the sexy eyes, alright? I have to concentrate."

"Yeah yeah," Grigor shook his head, brain trying to determine if the tingle in his lips was imaginary. "Sorry."

Another waiter appeared in front of Andy, clearing his throat to draw their attention as Andy pulled away from Grigor and made himself presentable. 

"Chef Murray, which plates are set for the judges?"

"Those," Andy pointed to a table with dozens of appetizers already plated. "The fugu is ready to go, too. I can fire the pasta whenever the judges are ready."

The waiter grabbed the pan amb tomaco with one hand, then leaned over to balance the fugu on his forearm.

Grigor looked around the room. The clock on the wall had barely budged. He'd discreetly set a stove top timer, horrified to see it still counting backwards, slower than he could bear. 

"No!" He flipped the fugu off the waiter's arm, the plate shattering on the floor. "Not yet."

"The fuck was that?!" Andy's bark carried over the waiter's voice, though he must've said something similar. Both turned to Grigor, the entire kitchen quieting down, producers and cameramen ready for one last dust up.

"It almost an hour." Grigor pointed to the fish, elegant petals arranged on spare white plates. "I need more time. To know."

The waiter backed away slowly, black shoes scuffling along the floor. Andy wiped sweat from his forehead.

"Boyo. It's ok. I've made this before. We're going to win."

"No," Grigor put his hands on his knees, suddenly exhausted. He fished the crumbled menu from his pockets and lifted it up for Andy. The blue ink from his mother's note was smeared but legible.

"Fucking hell," Andy's voice was a whisper. "How much have you had?"

"A lot," Grigor wasn't sure why but the sentence came out with a laugh. "Like, every piece you tried to eat. A lot."

"Oh my god," Andy dropped down to one knee and put both hands on Grigor's face. "How are you? How do you feel?"

Grigor's face was red, from leaning over or from early signs of toxins pumping through his lean body. "I'm fine. It's almost been an hour. Just don't let them serve it for a few more minutes and we'll know."

Andy's eyes opened wide. They had to get him to a hospital immediately. 

"Are you fucking crazy? This is not a wait and see moment! This is-"

"Already served," the waiter spoke up behind them. Andy swiveled on his knee to face the man in his black and white uniform.

"What?" Andy scanned his tables. "When? How many?"

"Dozens," the waiter rung his hands. "Service started a while ago, only the judges haven't been served yet."

Andy leaned backwards, the world slipping away from him as he laid on his back on the restaurant floor. "Oh my God," he ran both hands through his hair. "I'm a mass murderer. I'm going to go to jail and they're going to all be dead and they'll do walking tours of all the ghosts I added to the haunted building because of poor knife skills and- "

"Hey," Grigor pressed his lips to Andy's slick forehead. "It's going to be ok."

"How?!" Andy's voice was panicked, his thoughts streaming out unfiltered, the sound almost drowning out the gentle ding of a timer on the stove. "I just killed my own mum. Oh Jamie is going to be so mad. How much did you have? We have to get you out of here!"

"Shhh!" Grigor said, his lips again brushing Andy's forehead. "You're babbling. I'm fine."

Andy's eyes focused on Grigor's as he tried to pull himself back from his panic. "How do you know?"

Grigor kissed Andy again, trying to distract him any way he could.

"Because, I definitely felt that." 

Andy put a hand on Grigor's lips and flicked them back and forth like a child. Andy's laugh was an excited chortle, relief bursting out of his throat.

"You can feel this?" He pinched at Grigor's face.

"Oww, yes. Fucking stop it." Grigor swatted at Andy's fingers. 

"I'm fine. It's been an hour," he pointed towards the timer that Andy hadn't heard dinging above him. "Now listen to me. You need to stop feeling sorry for yourself and finish the judges' dishes."

Andy suddenly realized he was on the ground again, laid out on his back like in the ball park weeks earlier. Only he'd made it so much further than that. He pushed himself up to his elbows, determination building as he found his feet.

Grigor clapped him on the back.

"Win or everyone dies, Mumbles. No pressure."


	15. Episode Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunion

"Excuse me." The woman sitting in 4D finally gave in and reached across the airplane aisle. She spoke in a whisper and eyed Andy as if to be sure she'd picked the right person.

"I'm so sorry to bother you. I never do this sort of thing. But I'm a huge fan of the show and I just have to know... Did you win?"

Nearly a year after he and Domi met in the dusty van, Andy was still unsure how to react to strangers noticing him. With only the Finale and Reunion episodes left to air, it wasn't just Juan lurking in the corners of his cabin anymore. Now there were strangers with cameras in every corner of New York.

There were perks to his limited celebrity - an upgraded table when he took himself out for dinner, cute boys making room for him to sit on the subway - but more than anything it was uncomfortable. Bus drivers yelling out their windows. Confused tourists asking for selfies because they saw the woman in front of them ask first.

He dog eared his second hand paperback and looked at the woman in 4D. She couldn't be bothered with the unglamorous truth, with the knowledge that Andy signed a NDA thicker than an in-flight magazine and that revealing any episode spoilers meant Maria would likely show up in his doorway with a machete.

"Look," he put his book down. "I can't tell you. There's a producer out there who knows everything I say and do. But maybe you can figure it out. I'm on this flight. And not in a private jet, so..."

"So you must have lost," the woman finished. "Oh you poor thing."

"But," Andy shook his novel at her, "I'm in business class. And if I won, wouldn't I be restarting my own..."

"Business, yes," she said, nodding gravely. She clutched the arm of her seat in excitement.

"So based on the evidence. Either I definitely lost, because I'm on this flight," Andy pushed one earbud in, bounced the other in his hand. "Or I definitely won, because I'm on this flight."

He turned back to his battered copy of The Beach. After nearly a year of flying between New York and Chicago, Andy had yet to make a single friend in the air.

He opted for a cab after touching down. His last Uber driver recognized him as the new spokesman for a line of Angostura bitters and pestered him about it the entire ride. Cab drivers, either because they weren't fans of Top Chef, weren't fans of bitters, or weren't fans of talking, tended to leave Andy in blissful silence. He skipped the filming of the Top Chef Reunion to instead shoot his new bitters ads, and as he rode through Chicago in peace, couldn't say he regretted it. The lights of the city passed in a blur, each building slightly more recognizable until the car stopped along the now familiar block.

"Hey," Grigor smiled so wide his face hurt, "aren't you that sexy British cocktails guy?"

"Haha very funny," Andy said, deadpan. He climbed out of the taxi and pulled Grigor in for a kiss, their lips brushing lightly before they settled into each other. They used the other for balance, chests pressed flush, Andy craning upwards to meet Grigor up on the curb. Without thinking his lips parted, Andy's tongue searching. His hands grew bolder as they remembered the corners and planes of Grigor's body. Puzzle pieces he knew from memory and suddenly, desperately, needed to deconstruct.

"Woah," Grigor pulled back, his eyelids already heavy. The smile crept across his face again, a woozy expression taking in what must've been a plane weary and kiss drunk Andy. "Did you miss me?"

Andy cleared his throat. "Sorry, I umm," he grabbed his bag and stepped up onto the curb. "I guess I did."

Andy climbed the three flights of stairs, hands pawing at the man in front of him until they pushed their way into Grigor's tiny studio. He dropped his overnight bag on the counter top, the kitchen barely big enough to contain them both before it became the living room / bedroom.

"No fucking way," Andy looked around the apartment, stunned to see Grigor had somehow packed his entire place already. He reached into the nearest box to inspect what was deemed worthy of the move, emerging with a piggy bank, bright pink and horribly scuffed.

"You're not seriously bringing this, right?" He didn't bother waiting for Grigor to argue. "We won't have the counter space for half these things. Is there even money in this?"

Andy shook the bank, irritated at the muffled rumblings inside. He dug a finger into the bottom of the piggy bank. "What are these, mints? Why do you have a piggy bank full of mints?"

"Savings?" Grigor shrugged. "Saving myself from bad breath?"

"It's not coming," Andy leaned over and put the pig back into the box, careful to put it down in a nest of bubblewrap. They both knew the piggy bank would be on a shelf in their apartment in a week.

For the first time in his life, Andy was excited about shelving. About sharing a piggy bank full of mints, an entire apartment, with someone who wasn't his older brother. Excited to finally share a city with Grigor. His first time visiting after the finale of Top Chef had been nerve wracking, the two of them realizing they really didn't know each other away from studio lights. Grigor had never met Jamie, hadn't seen Andy lose his mind during a football match. Andy was entirely unprepared to follow Grigor into unmarked restaurants where Bulgarian mothers never spoke English and served mountainous plates of food. But the thousands of things Andy didn't know about him proved to be a thousand opportunities to get completely lost in each other.

If he hadn't been a chef, Grigor would have become a mechanic. He was good with his hands, and Andy couldn’t dislodge the romantic image of Grigor in tight jeans and a grease stained shirt from his imagination. He didn't own a car in the city, but Grigor’s apartment was littered with tiny Matchbox cars and a homemade racetrack that snaked through the kitchen and into the living room. Andy had spent an entire Saturday morning lying in bed and trying to push a miniaturized Porsche 911 Carrera so hard that it made the entire loop of the track with just one shove. It was all in the wrist, he discovered.

Grigor's bed was pushed against a wall that he'd painted a milky pink. It'd been trendy at the time, but somehow the color choice baffled Andy in a way he loved. It simply never occurred to Andy that the man had his own bedroom, or that it doubled as his living room, and that it was half pink. A piggy bank full of mints made perfect sense in the world of mini cars and bright colors Grigor had created, and Andy wanted it to be part of their new home.

There were, of course, the discoveries that Andy hated. His first weekend visiting Chicago, he laid in bed and stared at the pink wall, unable to tear his eyes away from a stain on the wall. It was a nearly perfectly preserved hand print. Slick. A silicon lubricant strain, the kind that marked his own bedsheets after Grigor's visits to New York.

The palm was slightly smaller than Andy's, which made him smugly happy even while it tortured him. He laid in Grigor's bed, jealousy grinding his teeth into a fine powder, telling himself _"At least other dude had small hands."_

He pushed boxes off the bed and stretched out, hours of air travel and mini bottles of vodka and mindless conversations with curious fans catching up to him at once. The new place, Andy told himself, might be a little shoebox in Chinatown, but it would be their shoebox. And the hand prints would just belong to them.

-

He was slow to wake up, enjoying the morning sunlights on his face and the warmth that enveloped him. He squirmed under the covers, the warmth sliding over him until Andy's fingers found themselves tangled in Grigor's hair. His eyelids fluttered, mind slowly making sense of the man between his legs, toying with Andy under the covers, lips warm and soft against his bare skin.

The groan that escaped Andy was hoarse but encouraging. He pulled the covers off the bed and opened his eyes for the first time, greeted by the sight of Grigor bobbing slowly, cheek bones even sharper in the morning light. The image alone was enough for Andy to thicken fully, growing impossibly hard as his girth stretched Grigor's lips wider. The younger man made a soft grunt and quickly adjusted, a hand resting on Andy's chest as he sunk his nose to the base of Andy's stomach.

"Oh fuck, Boyo, that's new," the words came out of Andy in a sigh, hips pressing up as if there was any more of him to bury. Andy's thighs tingled with the vibration of what must've been Grigor's attempt to laugh at him.

Andy reached down to simply caress his face, to touch more of him, thumbs feeling his own cock through the hollow of Grigor's cheeks. He pushed his hips down into the bed then back up again as he held the younger man's head still, his thick head pushing past willing lips and feeling his throat expand around him. He slipped back out again, so slow it was nearly torture, before sliding back again.

Grigor kept a hand on Andy's chest, controlling his movements with a firm palm on his chest when the Scot got too excited and lost control of his hips. It was a skill they'd built up together over months, and Andy finally found a slow rhythm with his hips as Grigor's other hand disappeared into his own pajama pants. He had no idea learning more about Grigor would mean learning more about their bodies, pushing and pulling and expanding each other until they fit together in ways he hadn't imagined, but as the younger man worked him over Andy couldn't imagine anything more rewarding and natural to share.

Andy's toes curled so hard they hurt, all of his strength spent on keeping his powerful hips as slow and steady as possible. He still couldn't get over the sight of it, the bulging veins gently disappearing between his lips, the hazy expression that matched his whenever Grigor peered up at him. No one had told him domesticity meant learning each other quite like this. Grigor's lips tightened around him. They both knew he was already done for.

Andy couldn't help pulling at his hair, his gasps an unintelligible mess of affirmations as body pumped into Grigor as deep as it could. He pawed at the shoulders above him, delirious and in need of Grigor's lips against his own to ground him. He had a million ideas about how he wanted to return the wake up call, but the glorious stupor that had overtaken him simply demanded lips first.

-

Andy pulled a stretched out t-shirt over his head, his hair poking out in wild tufts. If Andy was defined by his opinions, then Grigor was controlled by his appetites. He was on his feet and sliding on flip flops before the afterglow had worn off, the pink in his cheeks and thickness of his voice still giving him away. His smile was dopey, punch drunk, and he pulled Andy up with one arm.

"I require coffee and biscuits," Grigor said, his sentence nearly one slurred word in his haze. The pink wall glowed from the light that pierced through the blinds.

"Mm shirt won fit," Andy mumbled, lips still buzzing. Grigor led him past the little bars and bodegas he'd gotten to know in the neighborhood. His mind still tangled in the bedsheets upstairs, it wasn't until they were walking through the McDonald's double doors that Andy fully came back to reality.

"No," he leaned against the glass and tried not to slide down it. "No no no, we're not eating here. People know us for a food show, Boyo. Under no circumstances can we be photographed here."

Grigor pointed past Andy and through the windows. "Biscuits."

Andy hid in a corner while Grigor ordered at the counter, distracting himself with a red crayon and a children's menu. He tried dissolving into his own t-shirt when a slender passed him, gave up when she was clearly hovering over him.

"What do you want? I don't owe you anything.” He laid the crayon flat on the table and rolled his head along his shoulders, stretching, preparing. "What more could I possibly give you? You want this crayon? Huh?"

"Look, Andy," Maria sat across from him and pushed the crayon onto the floor. "You may not have won, but you're a huge part of this season. You're a hit! A short interview to edit into the reunion episode for next week and I'm out of your hair forever."

He looked over her shoulder and spotted the large camera on top of a table. Juan tried to eat a hash brown with one hand.

"I see you back there, Juan! Don't you have a union or something that can save you from this?" Andy turned back to Maria, ignoring Grigor's loud laugh from the counter where he was ordering.

"We're not doing this in the middle of a McDonald's, so unless you've got a secret recording studio a few blocks away then I'm out."

-

Grigor had not magically packed his entire studio by himself. Instead, a team of Top Chef production assistants boxed all of his belongings in exchange for a ten minute interview with Andy and Maria. Andy wanted to be mad at his unnecessarily handsome Moving Day Judas, but couldn’t poke any holes in his logic.

“She was going to get you one way or another,” Grigor said, perched on a stool beside Andy in front of the pink wall. “We might as well get some free labor out of it.”

Juan set up his light reflectors and adjusted his camera’s white balance. Maria pressed herself against the opposite wall and waited for his signal.

"Ok," Maria nodded back at Juan. "Gentlemen. Don't look at me-"

"Look at the camera. I know, I know," Andy said. "I've done this once or twice, ya know."

"Too well," she muttered. She flipped a page on yet another old clipboard and read aloud. "First question is for Andy. Now that you've seen yourself on TV, did the events play out the way you remember them?"

Andy rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I hit the floor twice in one week. Just like I remember. Really thrilled to see myself faint in all the promos for this season, by the way. Thanks for that."

Andy gave a sarcastic thumbs up. Grigor squeezed his shoulder. "Standing is over rated. On his back is really where he’s at his best.”

An embarrassed smile took over Andy's features, his gaze fixed on the floor while he fought the blush creeping up his cheeks. Maria would definitely not let that sentence air on TV.

"So," she tapped her foot, impatient as ever. "You once said - _'I'm not intimated by Roger. His greatest skill is appearing skillful.'_ That's a direct quote. And now you're going into business with him. What changed?"

Andy rubbed the back of his neck, of course Maria planned to weaponize his own confessionals. He sat up straight in his chair before squaring up to the camera.

"I... was wrong, honestly. I thought Roger was an insincere idiot who lucked into a restaurant career. Turns out, he's a very sincere idiot who won Top Chef. And earlier in the season we promised each other - if one of us wins, the other gets half the prize money. I don't think he's actually going to pay me anything, but our combined prize money is enough to start a new place. So... Hey Judy is coming back. With flood insurance this time."

"Are you worried about cooking alongside Roger every day?" Maria sounded genuinely interested. Andy smiled again, sharp teeth bared.

"He's a silent partner. Considering the amount of knives in that kitchen, I'm supremely confident he'll stay that way."

"Right right," she said. She flipped another page. "Tetrodotoxin. Are you aware how many people died of it last year?"

Grigor perked up. "None in the finale of Top Chef!"

"You got lucky," she said, pen pointing at Andy. "P. S. - We could've all gone to jail for that. Idiots.”

Andy swatted at the pen. "It'll make one hell of a finale episode and you know it. Plus, my sous chef would've known if it was dangerous before anyone else."

Andy looked over to Grigor, who nodded with enthusiasm. "Now if I'd died, that would've been good TV!"

Maria flipped another page, a low "that's not funny" escaping her.

"So, for the record - you two are staying together? Even with Grigor about to leave?"

“Jealous?” Grigor said it with a laugh but Maria rolled her eyes so hard Andy genuinely worried they’d get stuck.

He shrugged. Grigor was booked to spend a few weeks abroad shooting a travel show for Vice, a huge boost to his online profile that could pave the way for the rest of his career. It occurred to Andy they'd probably never wander into a McDonald's unnoticed again.

But instead of dreading it, he was giddy at the idea of Grigor disappearing into Eurasia. Only because it meant he’d be coming back to their home in New York for the first time. A year ago he'd fallen for a concept, a sketch of a character who happened to have dark eyes and a firm handshake. Not the fully rendered, motor sports loving man who’d tricked everyone in the room into packing up an apartment full of toys.

Now, spending three weeks on the other side of the world making hipster bulgogi seemed like the perfect left turn from the man he'd fallen in love with.

"Yes," Andy said, gaze bouncing between the cameras and Grigor. "We're staying together."

"The thing is," Grigor couldn't wipe the smile off his face, "when you compete on Top Chef, compete on anything really - you're probably going to lose. Eleven of us had to lose. Andy and I, we're losers together. Which means I win! Even though I technically came in fifth."

Maria nodded slowly. "I... _think_ that made sense."

"Well, look," Andy butted in. "Roger, he won Top Chef outright. But I won..." he thought for a moment, trying to be careful with his words.

“You can't actually win someone else. Right? I don’t own Grigor, but he's still the most beautiful thing that's ever been mine."

"Oh come on," Maria huffed when even Juan seemed to swoon. "Whatever. Here, the others made some videos for you."

Andy stiff armed Grigor’s old phone like it was the Ark of the Covenant. The damn thing had caused him more grief than it could ever be worth.

Maria held it out expectantly, waiting for Andy to stop grumbling and take the phone. His fingers jammed on the volume notches, Domi’s voice suddenly blaring from the speakers as she held the phone in front of her face.

-

_"Hi, Andy! Sorry you're shooting so many fancy commercials that you couldn't be bothered to make it to the reunion. Super excited to come to your soft opening in a few weeks. Hey guess what? Novak joined a cult!"_

_A hand yanked the phone from her, Domi screeched "that doesn't count as my turn" in the background. Novak's face appeared in the camera, his head sideways in the frame._

_"It's not a cult! It's about peace and love. I'll tell you about it later, we-"_

_Domi snatched the phone back. "It's a cult!"_

_She sprinted around the studio, the sound of Novak's footsteps close behind her. Andy caught glimpses of Grigor and Aga laughing._

_"Guess what else?" Domi huffed, the camera shaking. "Vika and Angi aren't here either because they're getting their own competition show."_

_Nick pushed into the frame. "Girlie knife fight! Hey, can you get me free bitters?"_

_There was an audible scuffle as the camera passed hands. Roger came into view, the camera steadying on his meticulously coifed hair._

_"Hi, Andy. I'm going to go out on a limb and assume you've got something stuck in your teeth. And would it kill you to pull a comb through your hair?" Roger smiled, proud of his own non-joke. "Ok, see you in a few days, partner."_

_"It's not a cult!" Novak yelled before the camera fell from Roger's hands and went dark._

-

"Wow," Andy inspected the phone for scuffs, surprised it was still in one piece. "That was quite the message."

Maria did her best Andy impression, shoulders shrugging off the weight of the world. "Allegedly, people like you."

"Can we be done, yeah?" Andy stood up.

"Wait wait wait," the producer sighed as she pushed him back onto the stool. She was beautiful, disingenuous, and still not at all amused with Andy. "There's one more video for you."

Andy swiped on the phone, a calloused thumb pressing play on an all black screen. The audio file was muffled, the sound filtered through water, maybe layers of cotton.

 _"You can’t release that video. It’s illegal.”_ It was Andy’s own voice, though it sounded shaky and distant in the audio.

_"Come on. First rights, yeah? If I win, I'm reopening Hey Judy and I'll let the network make it a special. Hell, a whole mini-series. Think about the... ugh, what do you think about? Sponsorships! Think about the sponsorships you could get. For a grand opening even. Come on, Maria."_

Andy stared at the phone in his hand, squeezed Grigor with the other. His face took on a shade of red.

“Fuck no. Guys, it’s not happening. No no no no!”

"So," Maria looked at a calendar on the last page of her clipboard, smiling for the first time all morning. "When's the big day?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friends... we did it! What're we going to do with our free time now?
> 
> This was my first ever attempt at a fic (I banged out some short pieces while finishing this) and I'm pumped to do more. THANK YOU for reading and for the encouragement to see this through, there's no way this would've been finished without your kudos and immensely appreciated comments. Be sure to support your own local Andy Murray!


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